Rope Ladder Bridge

Once I’ve become old and ware with sugared coated hair, they’ll ask me ‘how did you do it, how did you dare.’ I’ll tell them how many stood as barricade, between I and this day. My own blood opposed, but don’t worry, I’ll say, I promise you I won’t be as closed.

It was that feeling of fretting nerves from instability that caused my heart pain. As the ladder rope stretched between cliffs, and hung above a running stream. I’ve walked along those swinging wooden steps, linked with knots in between. I was afraid of falling, but I was even more afraid of staying behind, on that same side of the world in which no one wanted to come out from.

No matter how I arranged the pieces together in front of their eyes, they could never see the scene I described, at least not the same way as I. They instead had my mind to blame. Where to, what’s out there to take you. Too innocent and naive, too beautiful to draw in more than hungry men in need. Why are you not acting proper, why are you skipping above rushing water.

Stuck halfway midair, between where I’ve come from, and where I’ve grown to become. No compromise, no room to stretch any bigger limbs, only huddle within, and boil until the closed in valley gains enough momentum to breakout from the two walls crushing it within.

I can’t say to this day… How many times I’ve glimpsed into darker skies. Used my fingertips to trace my bluish veins with invisible lines. Shivered in December air, and peered into puddles collecting street dirt and rain. My thoughts drifted into reality of a parallel world. I felt everything they would have, if I really meant to break them with ending words. Every time I retrieved, cried to sleep and in the morning wiped my puffy eyes clean.

The crossing seemed as if it would never end, while a few missing blocks had me stop, hop and heave back escaping breathe. Looking for other ways, planning ahead the better days, pleading out ‘ how the hell do I get passed this clinching fate’.

The best I did was picture this day, arrange all the pieces of a newer stay. The bigger doors, the bright yellow painted floors, flourishing below homegrown lilies, those I’ve planted and watered in a bigger filed. Swinging in an open yard, typing letters and posting mail, the farther the better, that’s what I’ll say.

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