Faces that ponder their reflection
mostly find images that are distorted;
seldom do they see beauty or truth.
Something, we know not what,
has trapped their vision,
and it leaves them fragile and weak.
The process that produces this stream of myth
has its genesis in an unrestrained fiction.
For the thwarting of our happiness,
and the lure of our nemesis,
is also our elemental purpose –
to be something, or someone.
It leads to a creature crawling recognition
with each small motion a staged reality.
It finds fulfillment in the inconsequential,
and gives as its reward
the dubious incentive of adoration.
Anyone who feels can be caught
by the power of this spell, and close
their options in the face of persistent failure.
The reactions that lurk within our heart
continually draw us into a labyrinth of images,
the escape from which seems elusive.
We won't see who pronounced this fate
and said that we would be a prisoner.
We don’t want to know who first crushed
hope and drove it to loneliness.
And equally we see no way to freedom
apart from the path to perdition.
As a consequence we trudge about like machines
with a multitude of programmed sensors.
Our negotiation of the maze
starts to resemble the curse of Narcissus.
The sublimated rage from our captured spirits
will ultimately disfigure the face in the spring.
And after answering the very last question,
what will happen then?
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