Sometimes I feel that I stand on a bridge between two worlds. The knotted ropes that bind the slats are frayed, reduced to a mere pittance of turnings.From the top of the towers dotting each land angry voices call the people to war. They rise from the valleys to slash at the moorings that provide safe passage over the void. We who walk the bridge speak of peace, but they cannot hear our words. Each combatant sees the other as a weight that unfairly drags them down, when in truth each is a hand, whose opposing pull prevents both worlds from plunging into the abyss of dissolution.
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Sentinel
PoetryA collection of thoughts, poetic and otherwise, related to feeling different. Not quite fitting in. Loneliness. Depression. Alienation. [Note: I will be moving some similarly themed, previously published items, into this collection.]
