The Bridge.

Wandering stopped at the bridge.
A gateway to the otherside,
A span of time and iron.
Over waves and distant cries.
My footsteps fell like anvils,
On plates of rusty steel.
My hands could not be stilled,
With the echos of my steps.
The first 30 feet were uneventful,
Which swelled to be brave,
But bridges always end,
Upon the otherside.
I’m not sure why I walk here,
I’m not sure of the screams,
but somewhere in the distance,
Lies the answer to my walk.
I reached the half way point,
Mist swirled around,
It seemed to hide the bridge,
Bothe sides were blurry scenes.
I felt the steel beneath me,
On my naked feet,
Only steel seemed to soften,
As if melted in cold heat.
The trip became much harder,
Each step seemed weighted down.
I pushed myself to go further
To reach the otherside.
Once I was a farmer,
Or perhaps something else,
But now I was just a figure,
Trying to cross a great expanse.
Funny thing about bridges,
They are used by many men.
Those trying to find peace,
Before the day is done.

The Bridge.

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