long ago, we throw a rope across the gorge then a golden chain, and another vines grew across and bridged the two worlds over the years the vines grew stronger grew green, grew sinewy flexed with storms, held in drought supported any load we came to rely on that bridge it was our life it multiplied the lives we were dark years passed and the bridge weakened the vines withered for want of nourishment from disease, from misuse, from neglect when finally we realized its sorry state we tried to mend it, clean it, nurture it but it had grown to immensity and the scars were so deep that the job seemed impossible but we have our lives at stake so we had to try the other night our bridge blazed with twisted red-orange flames acrid oily smoke choked us we crawled away in horror, disgust, and sadness I was certain it was gone but I was wrong the next day, our blackened wispy strand hung in the breeze our lives still depend on it but I already accepted I would make a new life can we fix this? can it ever be trusted to hold our weight again? will our efforts only waste precious time? repair requires faith but I am in short supply