Crossroads

Crossroads

By: Tim Holt

 

The air is desolate and filled with ash,

Each second burning your eyes

As smoke to the naked iris.

Where is it that you wander?

 

Beneath your feet lies a broken path

The intricate network of concrete scars

Lead the wandering eyes nowhere.

Where is in that you wander?

 

The decisions in life lead you to this place

The seemingly desolate place

Of little consequence

Like a butterfly crossing your vision.

Where is it that you wander?

 

Little becomes known as you approach the intersection

A plank of wood points in four directions,

But each is devoid of any sign as to where they send you.

Where is it that you wander?

 

Your burning eyes wander to two identical roads,

Perpendicular not only in reality, but also in destiny,

Your feet fumble to a halt.

Where is it that you wander?

 

The ash-ridden air obscures your vision, your sanity, your comprehension.

The paths journey to different destinations,

But you cannot see through the ash.

Where is it that you wander?

 

Are you numb yet?

Do you fear the road you take, or do you fear the destination?

Has it already been decided, or is it up to you?

Is your vision too clouded to choose?

Is anyone here to guide you in your blindness?

Where is it that you wander?

 

You breathe in fresh air, cleansed by determination

Faint whispers echo in your ears, perhaps a warning, perhaps an urge.

Your feet begin apace forward, your eyes set upon the road ahead

Ready to face the demons of your path ahead.

 

Where is it that we wander?