Bridge, Smoke, and Ruin

A bridge is crossed but barely even noticed;
A bridge is closed and worlds are at an end.

The years are smoke:
We smell them better
Then we can hear
Or see them

I speak my structures into life,
A bridge of smoke to ford my pain,
To fall at last through shattered air,
A ruin off a long untraveled

Lane

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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