Chris Yellow

The crossroad end

There is a point unavoidably found
when although the view grows ever fonder
the dirt under your soles turns to stone
and the road promises splits no longer.

You're compelled to turn over heels to peek:
There is no way back yet extends on end;
You recognize each tree from root to peak
for the solace of shade they'd extend.

You can still count the rocks of tougher climb,
shiny ponds you filled with sweat, blood or salt,
or breezes that eased the steamiest time,
through those bulky barks that you groomed from sprout.

Either fills of treasure your breathing chest
or quicksands you into a hollowed step.

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