Someone who picks

In flipping through some musty myths
You find enlightened lines of lore
Which lionize the fallen foes
Who part imparting wise advice.
You wrestle with their chestnut choice:
Between two rights, between two wrongs,
Two prongs too long to make out from
Their shadowed, silhouetted forms
Which one says, “Life!”, which one, “So long!”

Contextualizing myth to fact,
You strike the matchstick stack of stakes
You had been sitting silent on
In search of sparks of sage insight.
You peer into that piercing light
And blinded by the billion ways
Your day-to-day arrays and weighs
You spit again upon your choice
Extinguishing the only voice
Of reason, seasoned though with noise.

You fall upon your mattress foam,
See lazily the lizard roam,
Admit defeat, you’re not so strong
To choose between two rights, two wrongs.
The lizard clicks its judging tongue,
“No myth is writ, no song is sung,
For candles with uncarboned wicks.
A hero is someone who picks.”

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