The Tragic Self-Destruction Of Narcissism

His soft brass inner parts
relax, and arms of varnished wood
lie still, and dead.

His heavy head,
and unblinking eyes.
The rusty dust behind,
and love in each ruby-jewelled gear;
each smoothly rasped tooth,
and spring, coiled under thick spectacled gaze.

The circular saw blade inside his chest is still.
The warm-grease smell, and cold copper wire,
in the shrieking green moonlight mire.
The opposite of fire.

Goodbye, my son, my love, my friend.
"Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?"

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.