Two withered paths, a corded brow, a face rigged in string.
Each subsequent step away from the decision –
Just met –
Draws this string ever tighter
Its tension rigging the two paths;
Options that will last,
Into this sort of equilibrium.
For the crossroads –
Just left –
To peter down the path
Of which he is unsure if his decision was one
That could be respected,
A sort of pride remained behind
Dragging him back, down the path
Which he just passed
A decision regretted
To bring him to the start which he, oh so hated
Why did he repeat these wonderings
With no meanings?
What brung him back –
time and time again –
To that same track?
He teeters on the edge of one path,
Then falls into the other
Only, to his dismay,
To be pulled back on strings – traps –
That rip him back to those same crossroads
Will he ever learn his lesson?
Or is his lesson learnt?
The man who swings on ropes of fate
between one decision
and another.
That's the last poem I've written so far. Make sure to tell me if you're enjoying them and would like me to write more.
