Indulging in this new-found pastime
causes an infernal end to many
now no longer worthful stories —
generates incendiary glory —
casting them into a memory-hole
forgettery (or better still déchèterie).
For here I speak of bridges being burned.
“Do not look back!” intoned the voice,
as slowly round I turned my head
but stopped myself instead from
staring at the fiery flameful scene
behind, beyond the chasm of my past,
which now no longer must be brought to
mind, for fire to the rear means ice ahead
which will be melted into something
called the present — an imaginary trick
inside your head which comes up fast
and just as quickly melts into the past.
Truth is: our imagination has no bounds.
Therefore, the bridges from the past,
when burned, do not create an empty space
but merely show it’s time to place the new.
Therefore, I revel in my skills as architect
and arsonist alike. I build a bridge to take me
to some new and challengefulsome ground
then burn it down when it no longer serves
the Light or brings unwanted visitors
who know not who I was or am now that
I have outgrown that bridge and changed
my heart and now explore not on the charts
I used to use — for that old bird has flown —
but build another bridge to whereabouts
unknown and now am dead to all the
useless unproductive trivia that went before.
(Oh how I’d love to tell you more!).
I’m no Brunel; but I have learned to build
and burn and build again to take myself to heaven
from the basement here (the battlefields of hell)
for bridges are what keep my soulness sane.
© Alan Morrison, 2017