{Prompt: "Like a bridge over troubled water," from Refined Poetry on Tumblr}
Look down.
Below me, those waves crash against each other—
reminder of Ivan the son, murdered by Ivan the father;
of antiquity’s titans, pitted in senseless brawls;
of troubled minds, frantic words, brusque scrawls…
No ripples here. No liquid ambiance.
Primal fear; even nymphs won’t dance.
Below your feet…
First thought? Precarious.
This is vicarious
suspense—reminder of that movie
where the entourage is afraid of moving
across the roped-together planks
that connect the steep banks
of a bottomless pit.
One wrong move, that’s it—
after a long fall, the sun,
the moon are replaced by oblivion.
No landing.
Just falling.
This—below my feet—isn’t ragged rope
but the cracks in the wood don’t motivate much hope.
At least a fall meets a landing here…
Not much of one, though… Petroleum: much fuel for fear
in those troubled waves.
But for now? Safe;
Maybe this will still last a short time more.