With sounds like crackling flames
the paper tears leaving open wounds
that will never heal,
The scars that used to form
too oft' scratched away
with unclean fingernails,
Infection raging in my defenceless system
as I slide slowly into the pit of realization.
Could I?
Should I?
Maybe if had only turned away,
instead of watching the tiny pieces
of much loved photograph,
as they cascaded over the blue falls
now turned black as night.

William Calderwood Wallace (C)2001