grinding sparks

The grim and whirling grind of days 
shoots sparks of everfailing light

behind us strewn to flickering maze.
Ahead, one's shadow looms affright 

as straight we turn. Unvarying course. 
Behind, so many cornered turns
diverging off to bring
us here. Despite

it seemed 

that we have learned
there were no turns.

A one-tined fork 
at every seeming cross,
we take. To shovel 
into yawning maw 
the coal that spills 
before it bakes. 

There's some mistake. 
These paths
behind 
in hindsight-only
options branch innumerably, 

while we have found the center
of the labyrinth expands
forever straight ahead, and growing
deeper maze behind.
In ever-since and slipping
darkling ways, we see

the freedom we shall find.

For it is now our turn. 

The only turn we ever had
is on 
and on,
and into, straight
- with never any chance. 

Too bad.

I have to laugh, 
or else I'd cry "Where 
is thine sense of humor, 
dudes?" Avast! Alack, 
I'm on such ride! I love
this ride, not to be rude 
or bold, or vulgar grinding on 
- such merry lights dance back
behind. Such scary shadows dance
before I've lost my everlasting mind 
in contemplation of the wheel. Grind 
on! O sparkling firework! Reveal 
in behind-spanking light 

that shoulder-glimpse
of nonexistent jerk 

and push and pull, 
we had but every step
down lengthening fork. 
One damn good tine, 
we've had to choose
at every turn. O such 
is life to love, you dork.