When burning bridges (so I’m told), caution
should be exercised lest finding ways back
proves impossible — in disproportion —
compared to all the short-cuts on my track.
The bridges I have crossed along the way
were not one length or width or even type.
For most were strips of driftwood in decay
with others made of rope or just a pipe.
But now I light this fuse and blow them all
to smithereens in flames of fiery red.
No turning back on this last curtain call;
old concepts of a bridge, for me, are dead.
I hurl myself into this twilight zone;
for every bridge was just a stepping stone.
© Alan Morrison, 2013