deprived of destiny
like every other living thing
alone,
he drones on,
and on,
on life
on two-bit philosophies 
on the why 
would
this ever come to be?

derived 
from contrived tragedy
the narcoleptic narcissus 
wanes witness
to
his own
withered potential 
and all the detrimental 
deeds
born of doubted seeds-
of all the would have beens
or what
might be
and the thought of 
thee
abstract, of course,
for no force
known to (this) man
of otherwise planned
could will
or
wish
any other
might have been.

down some dark circles
across the aisle,
not mine,
with wonder
about the sort of whys
gathered by-
why the shoulders
shift from side
to
side
and what unwind
finds her
unsuspecting,
unknown,
the voice inside
exerted 
outside,
the vibrato 
by and by,
I might find otherwise.