There is the door.
There is a number there,
Indistinct, smudgy
But still there.
Where ere one turns
There are posts.
They point the finger.
There's the door
In readiness.
It's not the way to go
But you have little choice.
There are many finger posts
But no parting of the ways.
The trees along the path
Have many fruits.
The wisdom is,
To choose the sweet
And shun the bitter.
This is not a Garden of Eden moment.
JL Feb 26 13:54
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