Until
now I never understood Narcissus—
Focusing
his selfish gaze on his own reflection,
Rejecting
devoted, cursed Echo, who pined unnoticed;
Whispering
declarations of love to himself instead,
Unaware
his reflection could never love him back.
I
know my poems will never love me,
Yet
I am enamored with their splendor
And impervious to my surroundings.
I
brazenly confess to obsession, repetition;
Resenting
distractions that avert me from self-worship.
But
perhaps someday I will leave behind some thing of beauty;
A
poem that flowers, reflected in a stream of consciousness,
Its
murmuring flow allowed to roam unchecked.
And
in that mirror of myself, others could repeat my words
So it might seem as though my voice still echoed here.
So it might seem as though my voice still echoed here.
