It's three in the morning.

Crossroad

Bratislava
Salzburg
Lyon
Seville
God-damn Paris.

These were my undecided roads.
Now they decide me,
unworthy of founding the right one.

Roll a dice at the crossroad ,
Thinking, whimsical.
Surely will take you to Bali, Chiang Mai, Haiti.
Somewhere warm and not so nice.

But it'd rolled into a drop of liquor
before I can tell if it's,
A One or three.

So I raised the glass and swallowed both.
Made the dice my compass.

I'm at the crossroad of an open plain,
where my reach goes, no obstacles seen.
But someone paved,
a couple of directions forehead.

There are the tiles of damp responses.
And there's the sand between your toes.

The dice's still spinning inside my intestines.
The compass's needle points upwards like a pole.

I stand up and off the ground.
The needle points to the south.
I turned and it turns.
Now's north.
Vice versa, over and over.

Making me spin round and round
in the middle of a crossroad.