Bridges
By Yair Shavrick, Opinions Editor
I dreamt I was a road
Weaving all around an island.
Not a perfect road
Yet at a glance, complete.
Used like any other road,
A transportation device
To be used and then forgotten.
From the ground which I lay
I could see another land,
Abundant in the pleasantries
To which I deeply desire.
There is only one way
I could own this paradise,
But somehow it isn’t
Reliant on my volition.
I plead with my creator,
Build me to the better land.
The answer pierces my heart-
A dagger of false truths.
“Bridges are for broken roads”
This rips through the tears
Of which my dry eyes weep,
To accept such a poisonous complacency
Would be a disservice to myself.
So I build my own beautiful bridge
Basking in its glorious structure,
Which reaches out to the beauty
I’ve painstakingly longed for.
I look back to my original road
Potholes and broken lines
Riddled with gravel and wear.
My happiness now ever-abundant
From my journey so crucial
To my success and beauty.
I turn to my creator
A smug smile on my face,
And I notice Her smiling back.
My bridge is appreciated and used
Only because I want it to be;
For no one but myself.
The sweetest words dance
Off my lips in complete euphoria
To the one I despised
And relied on most.
“Bridges aren’t for broken roads; they’re for the ones who dream”