Surveillance

I escape from the camera,

breaking through the

red tape

like a finish line.

What difference does it

make if the old house

turns blue?

The surveillance of my feet

reveals slick roads.

Confined actors in a play

poorly scripted.

The wasps I shared my

candies with

sting one another.

The other side of bureaucratic eyes

is a dim place,

shy from old rejections.

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