involution
written from somewhere inside
a fantasy
or mystery
but who holds the pen
and those words echoing
across a sea of static
unheard
and yet so well-known
who speaks them
there
in a murky wilderness
without rhyme or reason
unbeknownst to anyone
he walked by
snapping a photograph
he caught … the narcissist
reflecting upon his soul
preening in dark waters …
mysterious are the words written
this bright spring morning.
© G.s.k. ‘16