like the end of a
branch, where
a branchlet
was chosen.
Cold as ice, we had
to keep moving;
chose we must
or the ending
was chilling.
Left of the bifurcated
road we did go,
knowing full
well, hell
would be
waiting.
A stream of ice,
or a road of
snow, split
us apart, yes
forked, of our
sliced youth.
copyright d.a.white 2/2010
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