Sitting at the Crossroads,

I find myself at the crossroads a place where my path branches. They are a desolate place. Vultures wait on a hangman’s tree, The noose, silent, yet calling for me. Omen of the future? And there I sit, Where the roads converge, To wait a while, In the company of dust and bones of those who’ve failed. Waiting for another traveler to come. I'm not sure who this traveler is, And I don’t know if I should wait. I should pick my path, My own path. north, south, east or west? I stand. Even the longest journey starts with small steps.