Poetry of Issue #7        Page 45

In the long lost land
Of Old Shebang
There are no poems
Woods or dreams
Just an endless mass
Of bridges
Stretching as far
As the eye can see

Bridges hammered
Out of darkness
With people feeding
In the shadows
Of the arches
Clothed in rags
And bandages
Nursing wounds
That never heal

Bridges bound
By webs of choking vines
Bridges made
Of poisoned flowers
And human bones
Bridges
Far too full of fear
And sadness
For anyone
To step along

Still
Some people think
Of getting out
Of Old Shebang
- Of walking on
These bridges
Faraway
To blue sky doors
And better days

But these bridges
All go nowhere
They just twist
And turn
And travel back
Into the dreadful
Days
Of Old Shebang