Only thoughts, visions, blur reality
encompassed by cold, terrible Fingers.
Immobile, perplexed actuality,
as the cold mist of glory still lingers.
The King is gone, preserved in a flower,
he’s decayed in gossamer beauty’s clutch.
His people live on seeking for power
to brush fingertips with vanities touch.
How poison palpitates when a soul’s stained;
how its promptly squeezed through struggling veins.
Here Narcissus grows under moonlight waned
encompassed by old, cold Finger’s pains.
Yet still they came to stare with contempt,
forever reaching for that toxicant tempt.