Indifference

When two roads diverge before me, I choose the one less trodden—

and find it makes all the indifference.

For every path, whether worn hollow or tangled with thorns,

leads only deeper into the same dim abyss.

Choice is but a trembling lantern,

its light feeble against the vast, unfeeling dark.

Tell me—are we compelled by some merciless Fate,

driven toward miseries fashioned long before our birth?

Or do we, in our fragile arrogance, imagine ourselves architects

of roads that were carved in stone ages ago?

How easily the mind deceives itself,

weaving tapestries of purpose from threads of dust.

And so we pity our own spirits, drenched in woe,

as though our lamentations were singular,

as though despair were a crown upon our heads

instead of the common inheritance of all who breathe.

Yet still we wander, whispering to the silence,

pretending our chosen path diverges from the old, eternal end—

though the earth waits to claim us, indifferent

to which direction our trembling feet once turned.