In a world of extremes the bridges are lonely.

The western shore tells
A haunting tale
Without the shadow of a doubt
Of ghosts upon the span, their wails
And whispers a massy cloud
Of opiate,
If you inhale
It leaves you but a shell.

The eastern shore have a story.
Trolls under the bridge are sly
and deceptive
Hidden in the ditch.
They commit gory offensives
Then lie
Back beneath the arch beyond reach
Leaving you to squabble and die.

Avoid the bridge, they say.
They pray, avert the bridge.

In a world polarised, the bridges
are empty.

– The Mediasphere

The mirage of polar opposites

Pick a side! Don’t speak to the other side! Evil evil evil … you can’t compromise with evil! Choose l o v e ….. for they hate! Not we. We’re not the haters. 

Over the broken quills scattered over shredded promises, how can we trust you? Where are your rules – rules to hold you by?

But you know, we used to have people always on the bridges…

We could just understand. And not turn into them. You know, just meet. Talk for a little while. Make believe a little while, pretend like we were each other, and then come back. It wouldn’t be quite so bad. Once, they said it was fun?

What bridges? Burn the bridges! 

You know, the bridges we used to cross, and linger on. The bridges we used to jump on and meet on and tryst on. The bridges we used to build, and keep the ends held fast. 

Only traitors go on the bridge. Evil haters traitors. 

Lying gaslighting deceivers, that’s who goes on the bridge. 

Leave them empty. Nothing but a slippery slope is on the bridge – if you’re not careful, you might slide 

to the other side. 

And nothing – absolutely nothing – could ever be worse than that! 

Poetry | The Middle Bridge | Teja on the Horizon

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