Echo, her whisper forever a tale to be told, gave to him her heart

but Narcissus was not to be content. Yet another saw his heart

beholden to the careless countenance of the world’s most beautiful man,

and poor Ameinias, fool that he was, fell upon the gift

of a sword. Bright as the sweetest smile, varied as the most fickle heart.

And so ended a love that could never be. Ameineas, as foolish as we…

Today we build, flash upon flash, with footsteps upon a carpet red

meant only for the glitterati, those every day

Adonis born of myrrh, and Narcissus so enamored

with his own reflection and beauty so exquisite to nurture

Echoes enough to occupy the stars. We applaud when they stumble

and rejoice when they are submerged as deep

in the muck we manufacture to make opaque

the natural light of their fragile star. Could not we see them

as worthy of mercy as our own flightless arrows,

our own oft-missed marks? Twinkle twinkle Little Star

no one knows how deep the mar,  and with envy as odoriferous

as sulfur, we calculate how thick the tar.

© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019