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Mirror, mirror, shrine to yourself.
Keeper, curator of a vain museum.
Gorgeous God, give yourself a kiss.
Narcissus' little cousin,
so leisurely in your Elysian Field,
your firewall on high alert,
concertina wire keeping the uncool
terabytes away. Your Image
roams big and smug
in bits and bytes
over wire, air, and endpoints,
an information train rolling
from node to shining node.
Somewhere over the rainbow,
your station beckons,
but I'm not getting off.
Choo-choo. Good luck.
I have better places
to be.