Ivy, Fly, and The Single Sight

An ivy confused me once, I didn't know how to plant it.Where are the roots? Surely, grown into my house, into the window screen.So I cut off a piece, and threw it on the ground where I wanted it, but it died the next day.

I wonder if flies try to fly up my nose when I sleep. Or if bugs try to crawl in my ear when I dream.And if I never bathed, or moved, or ate for a year, would I have flies and bugs living in my ear?Would I take root and grow into my mattress and blankets, like an ivy on a house, spoiled like a child not spanked yet.Would I thrive and green a new kind of weed, or would my roots have been hidden from myself, planted wrongly, and die?

I wonder if a fly ever drinks from my eye, quenching a thirst for a different kind of sight, kaleidoscopic eyes becoming a headache.If he could be granted a single sight, he might be able to have a monogomous relationship, turn on the right street, add the spices to the right stew, instead of spending all his time making the obviously wrong decisions.

If I could drink from an eye, I'd choose the the eye of insight. What's under that dress? What's behind that thing they said?What could stand against me from becoming the ivy that I wanted to be, growing and thriving where ever I wanted.

But that's not a very comforting thought to my current sight. So I'll try to grow and live in the ears of the world, whispering my song and eating the wax that acknowledges my presence. I'll never cut off my roots again, assuming that my roots are my arms and my lips.