A memory of my early youth
Into the mirror of mine dreams
my tear-worn eyes go long.
Narcissus of heart's fantasie
doth weave this lonely soul.
Lost in the world of phantom feels
I'm luck-spurned castaway.
Another to my bosom's core
will never seek the way.
What is this mad entrapment here,
this prison of the self,
that only to the self may speak,
as to a cockroach sharing cell.