If you had no personal voice,
would you repeat the words of others?
A golden silence then perhaps,
may be more to your druthers.
If practice makes perfect,
then is life all just repetition?
Don't just be an echo of the human condition.
Muttering reflection of what could be,
shrouded veils spun O'lympian antiquity.
What tingling it cost Narcissus ear,
Be overheard hence commandeered.
Reiterate a plebeian defense,
What would you draw from the pools of time?
we're sassafras swaddles of dust and slime,
Concertos of primordial pantomime.
Poetry & Oil Painting by Mr. Gothic Hangman himself