Narcissus drinks greedily, draining every cup.

His thirst, never assuaged by nectar nor quenched by virtue.

With petulant roars, he demands his pounds of flesh

…and he wants them ‘gift-wrapped’.

The flesh must be freshly hacked from its bones.

Tenderised by the ravages of his own malicious intent.

Presented raw, by host on bended knee, serving from a gilded platter

...with head bowed.

Repeatedly, his roars are heard. It’s not enough…never enough.

He demands his flesh evermore red, even more bloodied.

Unaware that a day will come.

When the offering will be presented some other way - the host defiant.

And Narcissus must finally weaken and fall.