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The Bridge

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They say there’s a bridge out there, out there in the mist,
Some will deny it’s there, others will tell you it don’t even exist.
It’s not made of iron or steel nor stone, yet it spans the rising waters,
We are but bags of blood and bone, yet we carry the weight of our sons and our daughters.
And now the fields are all but drowned, and we climb up to the ridge,
Some will seek the higher ground,
Some of us the bridge.

If all is behind us now, beneath that swollen river,
The bridge we will find somehow, only then will we be delivered.
Though some will claim to be inclined, it’s a figment or a ghost,
But the bridge is deep inside the mind, invisible to most.
And now the city’s all but drowned, and here up on the ridge,
Some will seek the higher ground,
Some of us the bridge.

Open the gates that we may follow,
Open the bridge to all of us,
Open the floodgates to the river,
Open the bridge that we may cross.

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