An arching bridge, ablaze,
frames bending under the weight of steps.
Charred wood slowly crumbles
beneath the hopeful crowd—
each step a promise,
each breath a fragile bond.
Across—
a land,
a place
everyone dreams of being.
Flames grow higher,
frames begin to groan.
Fear reclaims its grip,
clinging tight to rattling chains.
People push, they shove—
some punch, some yell.
One man stamps his foot—
a loud crack.
The crowd gasps.
That man falls between the gap.
Others retreat,
fleeing back across the bridge.
The man feels the weight grow thin.
Amid the chaos
of hastened feet,
he watches the bridge
begin to collapse.
The son, filled with fear,
fears the fire might consume him.
Does he bring more folks,
or save himself?
Unsure—
he flees his father’s side.
The man dangles in midair,
in front of everyone there,
growing weaker
by the minute.
The little boy returns—
confident,
yet uneasy.
He soaks the bridge in gasoline,
throws the match,
and doesn’t look back.
And in the silence after flame,
people came to know—
The bridge was never lost to fire,
but to fear
and excess desire.
Lost to plastic mouths that spoke
too many things that were never true.
Lost to those who truly forgot
the only right thing to do.
It was lost to selfishness,
to hatred,
and all the fighting—
to greed, to fear,
to stubborn pride,
to trickery and slighting.
Lost,
because we forgot
what it means to stick together.
Had they never left the bridge,
they could have saved that man
together.