his modern fable

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He skidded on mirrors, Smiled at his reflection and pondered: Had he seen all those that he so called loved. Such handsome features, Speech and sounds not meant for the ear, But for the soul to hear. How does one beauty be anything less? Some void was scarcely the matter, As long as it was adorned with praises of his being, And passion offered in an ivory bowl. He always was fascinated with the story of Narcissus, Adored tragedies and late night conversations, Smacking lips, and threw out gold like dust. Marveled and flowered every time bodies met, Or ladies' hearts. But, he had yet to know Echo. Never taught him, no one could, As profound and fruitful Like preaching a deaf nihilist. He had quite a sting, And hardly aware of his toxins, Bit himself one romantic, amorous night, Fell his own prisoner. She, that always loved him, was ignorant, Wept without remorse by his side, At the reflection left in the glass.

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