Burnt Bridges 101
She’s just a little girl
but she does well to not always show
the shaking of her hands,
due to rage or desolation,
compulsion to wring;
scratch into a patch;
pull the wool over everyone’s
glassy fish eyes.
He’s just a little boy;
this one is never growing old,
but should he have to before time?
Learn by walking, stand up, convinced;
anything less is an utter waste of time.
She asked for nothing; he gave all;
thought he wanted to, at least
(for a second).
Shoot at will but think before you speak:
today’s promises will turn into tomorrow’s lies.
Devalued words don’t sell well;
so very light, they waft into the air
screaming and begging to be taken away.
She will have no pie, no base; handle-less tray
just a whiff of a dung lump: a lucky escape.
The reason: he promised the moon and stars
but came back with a handful of sand;
its origins true, but how to prove
rubble has the weight of gold
when you hold it right.
Just like light cannot be caught in a cage,
his gift is more valuable in chunks;
it is important to digest in manageable measures:
owning the whole but sanding down rough edges
will unearth an unavoidable void,
turn whispers into gales.