A road runs beneath me,
from where I stand, I can see
it meandering to oblivion.
The road on which vehicles rode,
in a serpentine line,
panting, heaving, praying for
interference from the divine,
now lies bare.
But, not the crossroad,
that leads to the cemetery.
I notice people queuing up
on that road,
not unlike the ants’ trail.
Is it irony or a happy coincidence,
a necessity or an aberration?
That there are no crossroads at the
final destination.