Narcissa, Narcissa.
Her lies are white,
her past is unspoken.
Her name is Narcissa.
Her name is Narcissa.
No one understands,
where she came from.
She only cares for beauty.
Her heart is only for herself.
She wishes to end optimism.
She dreads altruism.
She comes from the abyss.
She rose from the river.
She drank the sky.
She saw her reflection,
And then was enthralled,
Taken away by awe
And she eloped with
ripples of water.
Went down onto one knee.
She could not look away,
'Narcissa, Narcissa,
will you be my wife?'
her mind went, and so
her fate was forfeited
And she remained that way.
Forever in love
with her own soul,
Never able to understand
reciprocated love.
The act
of falling.
- bettydorotheamarjorie -
YOU ARE READING
a letter made from ashes
PoetryThis is a collection of my innermost knife cutting thoughts, my deepest insecurities, my heartbreak, things that I have thought about but never dared say out loud. Things that would normally go in a burn book, things that might hit a chord in you, o...
