So if I start flying, will the dimpled maple leaf
stop symbolizing
the nation?

Will screeching women stop
their investigative paper chase?

Don't we always try and return
to the point where
we first began?

Never reaching yesterday, for
yesterday is as elusive
as the grass that
dies under the rays
of the sun.

Protecting skin from dangerous
colours
that might create a space
between the eyes.

I grasp at the first sign
of a picture taken that
I can find.
Making it a photograph
of illusion, I become
the crawling lice
in somebody else's
hair.

Itching like a diamond necklace
tarnished by the
bleach left
in a bowl by
the sink.

So if I take my own hand and
find a place where
no worm would dare live,
have I become the creator
of my own demise?

Do I end, or do I begin?
Do I take one step at
a time
even when
it is clear
that I walk
away from me?

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