Narcissus

Nothing but an echo sound remained. The poet drowns in the winter chill of the water's rhetoric. At long last, self-acceptance. The air of the mountain spirit points to the centre of the ego, liquid gold in my numb mind. My warm semen is released in a flood of pleasure, in a Neverland where I've been praying for spring. I am a wind-up toy with razors in my skull, with an indecisiveness I can hardly understand. I will write my way out of this electric crisis. I turn corners to watersheds and walk to hills, not wanting to get lost and make a wrong turn. I don't know where I'm going on the voyage to self-discovery. Normality to absurdity. Droplets of epidermis sweat keep me cool in the warm heat of passion. In spite of our differences our minds are plagued with images. Silent hostages sent to Coventry. My pink lips are sealed, mouths in the Louvre, as the moonlight guides me towards insanity. I am confused and unclear, but the combination of incompetence and wishing is something I am all too familiar with. I could put the concept of true love into a thousand words, a sea of butterflies, transforming words, but I never seem to do it justice. I could never run faster than the Molossus, I burn brighter than candlewick.