Stranded on this bridge to nowhere,
The way I came fades into fog—
How far have I come?
The path ahead bleeds into black;
I know where it leads.
I hear voices, I see people;
Some of them have faces.
Most of them have blurred edges,
Like passing phantoms
In a lingering dream.
Their voices sift through my fingers
As I reach out to touch
Their faces. Like ripples in a pond,
I see my own distorted face.
My own eyes looking back,

My eyes looking back through
The fog from which I came;
I see nothing (though I see everything)
—that is not the way.
I look ahead into the
Black beckoning forth;
I unheed the call, I lean
Over the rail, off the side
Of a bridge neither black,
Nor white, just mist; a mixture of both.
Maybe this is the way.