I was alone, standing at a crossroads
Examining with an unknown urgency
A wooden post with interdigitated directions.
My hand brimmed over a red horizon:
“Desire,” the tattered caption said.
With resiliently gritted teeth I turned away.
“Now,” another bold carving proclaimed.
“Happiness,” a third pleaded.
“Lust,” “Power,” “This,” they shrieked.

The ax swung in panicked disregard.
The wood moaned in splintering cracks.
The blade slid wrathfully through.
The slanting bough pulling apart from itself
Finally collapsing to the ashen earth
A writhing then suddenly still corpse.

A hissing match pirouetted to the remains.
Expanding and dancing an orange ballet.
Wind cycloned arid hurricanes then ceased.
Dust settled and the small voice spoke:
“Follow,” it said, “I know the way.”
Lifting the flame blackened vestige
To rest like a yoke on my shoulders
I turned away from myself and followed.
The signposts to my past have been burned.
There is no turning back.