I don’t like this.
There’s nothing possibly
Positive, about feeling like
The end of a road has appeared before me.
The footsteps we’ve spent
The past three hundred plus days
Have faded into something that looks
Suspiciously like ash.
There are handfuls of ash in my pockets.
This road has narrowed down;
It’s almost impossible for the both of us
To walk along this path
And be equal,
Give just as much.
To my left lies an unused footpath,
With uneven stones,
And even less space for
Side-by-side matching steps;
But there is always enough space
For me to turn around
And make sure you’re right behind me.
To my right is a path,
Shrouded in shadow,
And wide enough for two.
But something tells me you won’t follow
Down that one.
There are handfuls of ash in my pockets;
They feel as heavy as stone sometimes.
Rather than make a decision,
I feel it’s best
To sit at the edge of the crossroads –
Head bowed waiting for a solution,
And let the ash weigh me down.
(I’d rather you make the decision yourself.)