he waited for them to speak first

when two roads diverge in a yellow wood
the fork is an amorphous metal spoon
a touch of heat, a stretch in each-
-direction is the only known destination.

you pick a side, your dulcet climb
the soft intrusion of your confidence
the path is long, your vision naught
you never really gain what you seek

you pause, you wait, you hesitate
make sure to look out for caped whispering
you look to make, for what’s at stake
the reassurance of your voice in a new surrounding.

your nature revealing an affinity for making
ill-informed uninformed informed decisions
& instead goes to follow experiences fading
into the surety that nothing means anything after all.


It’s weird when you have to make choices. That’s pretty much all we do all day, every day, but we are still terrible at it. And this is usually not because of the choices or what they represent, but because of the nature of decision making itself. We never really know what each choice fully represents, we either know it by other people’s subjective definitions, or we know it as an unknown territory that is at times exciting or terrifying. We tend to pursue what seems rare and promising, but in the end do we really know what does matter and how much?

Randomly inspired by the line: “he waited for them to speak first, as if to allow them the reassurance of their own voices in new surroundings” from Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

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