The paths diverge. Numerous.
My death at 52. My death at 95.
While pruning trees, the bark wet and smooth, I slipped and snapped my neck.
The heavy sound in my ears, the flicker of red in my eyes.
Nothing left but slow breathing until the blanket of darkness fell.
Drowning in the cold damp earth. Countless.
A wedding, I saw their faces. Celebration.
All around their bones as dust and ash, and in their mother’s womb.
Innocent, just born. Used up, upon death.
Expectations unfulfilled. Who would hold your hand?
I don’t want to see. I don’t want to know.
Sometimes so close, a drawing in my ear. Constant.
Perception divided. Futures running parallel.
Tingling in my lower spine, a column of water without bottom.
A moment before the turn, in only red and blue.
Myself ahead, I walk the path. I walk ahead.
All paths and endings.
The void shines blinding, tormented by the knowing.
A deck of cards laid out. A choice. A path to follow. The next junction.
Time elapses grudgingly.
