The bridge

 

A bit happy for what has’n spared,

Carrying lots of pain

about what has’n taken away,

Trudging the bridge between

happiness and sadness,

there I walk from this end to that,

unable to ensure

which side to cross over finally.

 

The swinging suspension bridge

seems an end in itself,

rather than the means for a cross over,

The bridge made of:

gratitude, guilt, anger, pain,

relief, safety, insecurity.

 

The swinging bridge

swaying over the vast chasm

that life seems from it,

On it most of us walk

interminably from this side to that,

taking it to be the only journey possible,

Foolishly ignorant of the fact

that it was a mere means for crossing,--

a humble convenience or utility.