I don't burn bridges, I preserve those wonders of old. I let the waters rise, whilst I remain underneath its ridges and contours.

I don't burn bridges, not because that I am mature.

I don't burn bridges, because I am alone; and a bridge is a well travelled road.

How do you know that you take the best way when there are so many ways of being in this world of eternal music, poetry and mystery unveiling the dance of the swans and the hardship of the smith.

How do you know that you wake up for your day and not somebody else’s day and you wear your body, and carry your thoughts on your shoulders, through the mountains and hills, until you wish to reach some destination and rest down the load of the day?

Do you ask what road to walk?
when there are so many forest roads to take, how do you know, when others drive on highways, that promise to reach sooner and faster at any visioned destination.

Do you believe in destination, in a beginning and in an end, and it is not imagination creating the wholeness that already exists and you move to through it at inconceivable speed.

How do you know you do your duty and not somebody else’s duty is taken away by advice, surprise, need or greed,

How do you know that you are writing your own poem, and not somebody else’s poem founds it’s own way of touching your heart, words and mind, despite your mother’s imagery, words come to you as wizards disguised in freedom and intimacy begging your ink waking the spirit of lovers, nations or angels sleeping in sun’s rays?

How do you know that you wear your
own skin and not somebody else's skin, God’s garment for earthy flesh that swims in waters and blood on one side and touched by mountains on the other, that never can be washed and shaped like a river wish, nor tore apart and killed with your own hands as it belongs to its Creator, while you keep believing owning it as a piece of iron armour, God’s trust embodied in skin shining light back. Tell me human of ignorance and disguise, tell me, tell me,
What would you do if you would know that your skin is not your own skin?
Would you be happy, or disappointed?

How do you know your lover is your soulmate and not somebody else's soulmate
when there are so many hungry souls in this world starving and craving for the same soul and for that same love, day and night, salty tears falling on hope’s feathers
dreaming of a reunion.

Do you believe in destination, in a beginning and in an end, and it is not imagination creating the wholeness that already exists and you move through it at inconceivable speed.

How do you know what road to walk
when there are so many forest roads to take when others drive on highways, that promise to take them sooner and faster at any visioned destination.

How do you know that your dream is your own dream and not somebody else's dream at night’s taking shape of bridges, stairs to
rainbows and brides, fairies flying over rivers of kisses at the black sea, embracing lovers sleeping in fields of yellow flowers.

Oh, Life are you the one, or are you the many? How do you know?

I once crossed a bridge,
That now is burnt.
It seems that behind,
All are hurt.
A word too quick.
Can't be taken back.
My whole world,
Goes to black.
Actions and reactions,
Done in haste.
It all seems,
Such a waste.
Regret, it rears it's ugly head,
and desires to be fed.
But regret, A bridge, can't rebuild
Not when it's very foundations are crumbled.
And covered by the embers,
That used to be a bridge.
Bridges are built on faith and trust.
The strong ones are steel,
And will withstand rust.
But thoughtless words,
Spoken in haste.
Can lay even the strongest,
Bridge to waste.

she burned every bridge
because the heat from the fire kept her warm
and the danger of the flames were better than emptiness

she burned every bridge
and sank every ship
before she realized she was on an island
alone.

It is always the walls
that come crashing down
to suspend a new dawn.

Built to illuminate power
and show integrity,
but where does integrity lie
in a structure soon to die?

Yet it is the bridges
that hold a higher power
than mere stone walls can shower.

Bridges are never blown
for a new empire to be grown,
but bridges are commonly built
to support an empire's tang and hilt.

Those  who tread the thin blue line
knows it  follows through their lineage.

Strong boys become men,
then become cops.
The rest become robbers,
the devil that stares them
in the eye for the rest of their life.

If they  are good they’ll get
their shoot out
in the slaughterhouse.