I think it's the roses. 

Because I stopped to smell them and the path disappeared. Packed its bags and moved on to the next soul ready to embark on an unimaginable adventure.

There's always been a map, a road sign, a quaint old diner opening its doors on a rainy night for the lost travelor. But the doors are closed now, and I'm alone in the rain without an umberella.

The rusted metal sign on the corner begs me to follow, luring me in with the hope that my dreams are a mile down on the left after the fork in the road. 

And so I wearily pack up and continue on.

But had I looked back, I would have seen the smirk that sign had, deception lying under the faded paint of what used to be.

I could have listened to the desperate whipsers of the trees, aged with what has been.

I should have listened to the daises, their innocence tarnished by the dissapointment of what could been but failed to be. 

But all i could see was was the fading dreams of what I wanted to be, so I walked aimlessly on, not even stopping for the roses.