The Amateur Poet

Saddened twice, or maybe fourth. Here I come again. Drowning once, or maybe none. I might've been drowned ever, thus the suffocation, like a siren singing, melodies as smooth as silk, too beautiful to resist. Moon shines dimly a far, droplets of warmth spread over. Unrevealed yet crawled. Perhaps a decade would help, or an oath would, 'til it fathom out.