On the Cusp

I am on the
Sharp edge of
Change, growth.
It cuts my feet.
They bleed.

Where these crossroads
Meet, the road
Is bare, well-trod
And the signpost here,
Painted blue and white

Like a Venetian mooring
Pole is too bright, too
Bright.  Its straight
Fingers point four ways:
Those two back there -

See, back there - I came
By them, refuse to 
Choose them again.
These two roads right
Here ...

	... are unknowns, not uniform ...

	... which to pick ...  I think ...

To take the stark one -
The one that slopes
Uphill in a straight bare
Line.  It cuts directly
Through my eyes, is

Unfussy, looks 
Disciplined.  I see the 
Other road is
Lined with flowers, 
Nicely cobbled with

Bricks glowing redly
In the sun.  It is a
Haphazard, coggly one
Meandering lazily
Side to side 



And leading down,
I suspect, to some kind 
Of absorption, of
Compromise, a kind of
Closure where 

Nothing is ever
Certain, always
Diffuse.  I will
Choose my Fate -
Take the straight one -

The black, no-nonsense
Aesthetic that seems to
Brook no lack.  I will
Take it on the chin, on
The rise.  Not look back.

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