Somehow I have acted as though my words have meaning,
as if by my feeble expressions I can shift the unknowing
and somehow bend the impossibilities of the eternal
into some comprehensible understanding.

All that is comprehensible in this
is my ignorance and fallacies.
These pretty words painted on porcelain,
hues made to match the stained glass of your mind.
These pretty useless artifacts
serving to only raise our thinly veiled narcissism.

The glass breaks and shatters
cutting flesh and opening the soul with wounds
beyond the surface.
Showing the ugly side of being human,
this lust for pleasure
and hatred of anything pure.
Disgust for anything other than myself.
This narcissistic love.