The mist rolls in, a brine-soaked shroud,

Where Pacific spirits, fierce and loud,

Step from the tide in boots of salt,

With secrets locked in a rusted vault.

They are the daughters of hurricane’s breath,

Who flirt with the fathomless, dance with death,

Their corsets of kelp, their fingers of bone,

Claiming the sand as a hollow throne.

They march on the pier, the Santa Monica shore,

Where the city’s electric heartbeat starts to roar.

Yes tomorrow, the cafe—that Unurban stage—

Shall witness a myth from a darker age.

The Sunday Songbirds, with eyes of glass,

Watch the shadows shiver as the sirens pass,

A collision of steel, of coffee, and gales,

As the sultry pirates unfurl semi true tales.

They unfurl their mouths—a cavernous sound,

That shakes the floorboards, rumbles the ground

.

Are the stories real? Did they plunder the stars?

Or were they birthed in the hulls of the bars?

It matters not, for the passion is red,

A volcanic fire that wakes up the dead.

They spin in a riot of velvet and lace,

With a predatory hunger, a lethal grace.

The spoons start to rattle, the windows to weep,

As they sing of the treasures the trenches did keep.

A gleam in their eyes—a dangerous, cold light—

That turns the cafe into a ship in the night.

Come witness the revelry, reckless and grand,

As the ghosts of the ocean reclaim the land.

Eat of the wonder, drink deep of the fright,

And dance till the pirates dissolve in the light.