Mirage

"2 miles from Perfection,"
reads the sign
on a well-traveled dead-end
to a ghost town on the edge of awareness.

And the throngs of people come
seeking the solace of a few glimpses of glory
that turn to sand as they swallow
And aspirations turn to tumbleweeds
blowing dreamlike across the desert.

You can see the evergreen mountains
standing resolute and unscorched off in the distance
where wolves and demons prey on reality
And the dwellers in their hovels
pray on hope and the promise of something better.

You stand at the crossroads
Between no
and where;
Your options are slim
and none,
Delusions
and dreams,
Fear
and failure.

Which will you choose?