“Rickety it just might be, the bride so wee, something very old, but be bold and take the first step and off and across the waters you go!” Gun Roswell
A bridge carrying you over
To the paradise, or sort of
It’s an island surrounded by water
Maybe even get, a pet otter
Alas it’s heaven for those
Whom seek solitude and prose
So come on down get your dose
Of eternal, sometime surreal
Dream of the Finns
Where life really begins
On an island, in the middle
Of nowhere, without a paddle
“There are roads up there, bridges, built on top of thin air, hanging just there in the skies” Gun Roswell
Bridged over the skies
They built them, way back when, out of stones, bricks, whatever they could find, just because they wanted to, reaching for the skies, for divinity, or at least, that is the theory, for us in the here and now, looking up there, at the skies, where the bridges we can spy, built by those who dared to dream, that there was more out there, than could be seen, by the naked eye, even if open wide.
Rantings Of A Third Kind 