Day 21, Narcissus

O beautiful boy!

Stilled, sitting,
watching.
Young fawns prance
by,
dancing.

A wisp
a curl, a lock of hair
hangs,
glances across
the field come hither
eyes.

Enraptured, she is caught,
reeled in,
absorbed.
She’ll go home
with him,
he’ll come first,
held in his own hand,
engrossed, inflamed,
consumed by lust.

She’ll leave,
lost,
he’ll never call.
Won’t see her
when she walks by
next Friday night.

An old blind man speaks,
listen,
cover the mirrors,
still the streams,
lives are in your
eyes.

Prompt today from napowrimo.net is to play with the myth of Narcissus.

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