A black smear of ashen inks
rise up above where the crossroads meet.
Dust kicks up and clouds the path ahead;
the road to the left is layered by fog instead,
and the path to the right is laden
Behind, there is nothing left—
a crumbled path,
a broken yellow brick road
where footprints and road signs
fade into nothingness,
as if it never existed,
as if the past is only present,
and the future? A moldable clay.
The crossroads give
no promises, an abyss
beyond each door. Eyes watch,
somewhere in the distance,
but the guiding voice
lends no comfort, and the listener
no ear. Above, the storm
brews, rumbles, growls,
and soon will come the rain.
Kathryn Staublin is a writer and English teacher from Indianapolis, Indiana. She has a strong love for all things that grow, and when she is not writing, she is gardening, walking outside, or taking care of animals with her husband.