the swing.

On a moonlit night.
I stand on a high bridge made of worn out rope
over a deep ravenous river.
between two chasmic mountains.
Waiting to fall into the dark abyss.
and hit the water. black.
breathe. sleep.
As the wind hits from behind.
like a thick sack of dry hard mud.
the bridge gives way.
I hold it tight and swing along
to hit the stone of the mountain.
it has been standing with open arms
for centuries.
I keep my eyes open as everything turns red.
and hold the rope tight.
I am not scared right now.
I am alert and awake.
Waiting for that next thrust of the heartless wind.
To ride it like an eagle.
And fly into the dark freedom.