A map of the wind

like blinding fields 
of honey-golden wheat

s         

  w          y

        a           i         g

                         n

with one final
vernal e x   h   a  l      a         t     i  o n
in hot anticipation
of sweaty summer’s
labored respiration;
the hair 
atop behind across beside 
your head, ears, neck and eyes
- beckons me - to recognize

my Truth:

I reckon.
I do 
choose 
the
     path
          to
            my
            demise.