Poets' Practice Pad

Risky Business

Stranger, you,
from the dark roads,
come to me every night
dreamlike, creating a myth
of starry hours,
but I am made of solitudes,
and my sorrow you cannot obscure
with seizures of tenderness.
Still I, attempt to spin
a thin, threadlike bridge
to a world newly invented,
with a feverish hope
that my feet won’t fail me
when I cross over
to you.


          Write a poem to the prompt “crossing a thin, thread-like bridge.”






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