The mirror’s lament

How you had spoken to me
in the pale mornings
I cannot express to anyone —
all are deaf to me;
no voice is my own.

All that you had told me
is the first truth,
and mine is but a dim echo,
seeking to mirror your brighter light,
your stronger tone.

You are my Narcissus,
and I am not even the nymph,
but the pool beside which you perish,
never even having kissed
your own cool lips.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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