Original Sin

I feel sorry for the butterflies
When I turn off the light,

Up ahead, piles of blue gather and form, the Niagara Escarpment,
My eyes gently wander downwards and to the right, yes, stripes of white race ahead of a truck.
A cork is popped open in my ear and in flows a tide of stimulation.

The white paper cross in an SUV,
True Patriot Love - reads a Tim Horton's sign,
Subject to ignorance, suffering and the domination of death, and inclined to sin,
So read on,
Read the catechism driven into the worn and
Macabre faces that rotate and
Sometimes upright
Sometimes horizontal
Often dead.

It's not time yet
To tear up the sail.
Let things be.