Narcissus Within Us And so a flower blooms, in switchwayed fingers cracked. Blossoming some stone-clad time, of mans small tendered rest. Of pool and grabbing, all self-caged waiting. If he is we in resting bowl, lank hair from dew's lost hating. From reflected golden hues on skin, to blue grey slate washed stone; No move, died rustles years ago, to make a liquid home. And lo the Hot Gates, gap of blood and Spartan shield, opposed in opposites attract on merriment on track and field; for the Gods; for Distance; nevermore our feet to yield: never more our feet cross track and field, dust lacked soles, evermore our form to yield.
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