The Bridge Poem by Dennis Lange

There lies the bridge; we cannot see the end.
It disappears in shadows 'round the bend.
We know the way is littered by the leaves;
And, darkness falls upon it - there one grieves.
But here we are, already on the bridge;
It seems to be a type of heritage
From which we cannot flee. It is our feet
That walk upon this path without repeat.
We came from somewhere? nowhere? anywhere?
And step to-ward the end at which we stare.
It is incumbent that we make our way,
Since Time stands right behind and we can't stay.