507 Faces

The fragile narcissist sees yearning as pain.
He wakes in the morning pondering, am I sane?
Again...
It's laughable; his insight.
He's so encaptulated in the waters reflection.
He loves his eyes; but will never know their meaning.
He holds candles but never his tongue.
Now his psyche is frolicking freely on the shore, awaiting a smooth transition into drowning.
He believes it's what we all really want.
A hollow shell in a safe haven.

The breeze has thrust him wayward, in a clasp of roots and thorns. 
Skin torn; still drawn to more pain. 
Again... 
He works so hard for his kin. 
Enough for them to lift him away from any sense of salvation.
In a desperate attempt at self preservation he watches as the clock strikes a time worth waiting for.
Leaping at any sense of direction.
He realises, there never was direction... 
Just what he feeds in and of himself.

He locks it in, forfeiting release.
Thus creating imperfection.
In his eyes. 
Not to us though. 
To us you never changed.
You never will.
We wouldn't want that.