It's rather rare these hopeless days
To see such a picturesque narcissist,
Just as it it generally rare to find sunrays
Where each sparrow remains held in fist.
Eyes bluer than the industrial town's sky,
Cheeks painted porcelain to wipe out
Any rationality, any curious "why".
To forget what he is - this is - all about.
YOU ARE READING
A phone book
PoetryA loose continuation of A Few Hysterical Words, this time focused on character descriptions.
