A Sign
Standing upright, a sign sourly shows
You the way amidst the snowy rubble,
Though the road is nowhere to be seen.
Those signals and symbols, could they not
Mean something else if turned upside down,
Inside out? Perhaps the letters are to be read
From right to left, something left out, or
Mischievously, purposefully
Embellished?
Once you look down and around you,
You realise that you yourself have yielded
To all those twists and turns, and now, red-faced,
You read “STOP” (or POTS, a more deferential acronym)
All over yourself, pleading to be heard by the stampeding
Herd,
While moss and undergrowth, dust and mud,
Claim their rightful settlement over you,
Ashes to ashes, return you must.
So patiently, hand in hand, we pray for sunlight
And rain and firewood, to bring us clarity of mind and sight,
As wretchedly, we shiver in the dark, waiting for the elements
Standing upright, signs sourly show
The way amidst the snowy rubble,
Though the road is nowhere to be seen.
