“People think it’s easy…”

People think it’s easy being a narcissist, but, there’s a lot more time involved than you’d think — I mean, every day, there are people’s dreams to belittle, and their pains and griefs to dismiss — meanwhile, keeping up a constant flow about just how unfair life is to me. Some of you couldn’t last five minutes having to be a real narcissist; under the pressure, you’d break down and start caring about other people in no time.

Human lives are imperfect: in fact, they are markedly so. Yet, whatever perfection there is in each, or any, of our lives, it is characterized by our adding to the world’s often meager store of truth, or goodness, or beauty; or, perhaps, just not ruining true, good or beautiful things when we happen to find them.

Nature Has

Come now, sit beside me here,
Let the rain fall on our heads.
Watch the blinding storm come in,
Hear the thunder break the air –

We, who once belonged to fear,
Clinging tightly to our beds;
Trapped in tapestries of sin.
Welcome to the real nightmare! –

Nature has, in holt and heath,
Wreathed a toxic rope of fire;
We who brave these elements
Look for hope amid the strife –

Let the storm then bare its teeth,
Let it light its funeral pyre:
What reality presents
May then lead us back
To life

Ziena’s Paradox

Vague gists…

The Xyst at the Stoa of Attalos.
The Xyst at the Stoa of Attalos.

Ziena had quit,
So tired, pained —
Days were endless,
Nights just lonely

Under a cloud
For years it rained —
Beguiling kisses
Making only

Xysts &

Vague gists

= = = = =

(via The Daily Prompt)

a sonnet on vicissitude

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no summer cloud has ever seemed so soft;
no bright blue day has ever been so fine —
no other thing that’s flown or held aloft
has ever been so fleeting in design.

and passion flows from me to who-knows-where;
your whims might take you anywhere at all —
and leave my soft’ning thoughts out on the air
to realize my place, and then to fall.

for such is your capriciousness to me:
i study it, but know it less and less —
your liberty is its own probity,
and past my feeble ken, i must confess.

but all that flies away in rhapsody
those times you open up yourself to me.