Poetry of a Conlanger

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Burnt Bridges (5/13/06)

You were always a pyromaniac,
But I never thought you’d take it
This far.

Across our short oak bridge,
I see you carrying a box of matches.
You light one,
And drop it onto the bridge between us.
I am stupefied, and so, so hurt—
More so when I see that it’s really cheap pine,
With oak veneer.

I scramble to find water,
But there is none,
So what we had crumbles
Into the abyss as ashy snowflakes,
And the fire spreads.
Our friends’ bridges to you
Are burning,
But you don’t even try to put it out.

You just watch,
And smile,
And show us all a new bridge
—short, shiny, expensive cherrywood—
a bridge to another girl.

I wish I had a flamethrower.


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