Burning Bridges


Burning Bridges


Of course some deserved it. Some

didn’t, and it took years of wiping ash

from my soles to properly discern

one from the other (with any degree

of certainty). One was arson,

plain and simple, but without witnesses

no charges were ever filed. Thankfully,

no one was killed in the blaze, but crowds gathered

in the days it took to burn, voices cacophonous:

What a shame. Separate reasons. Another was covered,

weathered by decades of exposure to the elements,

but treacherous to cross. Nails stuck out

in the strangest places: rusty, jagged.

When the wind hit just right, it threatened

a collapse with every guttural creak and croak,

until one day one of the supports gave way—

after that, some called it a mercy. Sentimental

souls called it a tragedy. I called it closure.


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