Two roads diverged in a wood
so I sat down on a bench nearby.
I watched as wanderers walked,
ambling or ambitious,
choosing their own fate.
Some stood a while.
Some sat next to me, twiddling their thumbs in ways no longer lonely,
outstretching their physical means to find a mentor or guide.
Some prevailed.
Others plopped down next to the bench, cross-legged with their heads in the hands or meditating with their fingers in the air.
I stared off for sometime.
Travelers came and went, boarding trains to near and far. Others didn't need the tracks but longed for them anyway.
I sat there for years, wearing the same old hat and coat, wearing thin elsewhere. Who do I want to be? Where am I going? What is my purpose? The only answer ever arriving in the form of some weary-eyed traveler.
We would lock eyes, expose our souls, mutter remorse for it, and they would move on.
And then I would watch the wanderers walk some more.