Short Burn Your Bridges Poems

Kill the spark
the fire dies
Mute one voice
and Poets cry

Kill the larva
kill the host
Burn your bridges
— post by post

(Dreamsleep: July, 2025) 
...

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We cross our bridges
When we come to them.
We burn our bridges behind us.
Why don't we just
Burn our damn bridges
When we get there?
Saves & lot of wear & tear,
N'est-ce pas?...

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Some things in life you cannot fix,
so we burn blemished bridges.
Throw leftovers into bonfires,
watching silent embers blaze in
grandiose gold and orange flames.
Wait, as toxic smoke smoulders clear....

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Her magic held captive.
A strange feeling lingers in the air.
The saints take blame for the sinners sins.
There is sorcery everywhere.
  They light fires.
They burn witches.
What goes around comes around.
She has a temper that can burn down bridges....

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wake me up when it's all over
"when the ink of my pen stops bleeding
when there is no trace of their memories"
wake me up when the nightmare is over

november's sadness will take me down
burn the bridges to the next run
lunar eclipse and pacing under the sun
gray will return in it's darkest shade...

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Will you wait for me 
till the moon parts the clouds 
and the lake looks serene ?

A reticent encounter;
I want to speak through- 
silence. A shadow play will do. 

Mystic nights weave- 
a conspiracy. The insects 
hover like words.

A lamp ? No I will 
burn my bridges to illuminate
the river.

Between the math- 
and a story lies 
the bloody corpse.



Satish Verma...

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I don't know rather it was love or lust
but I knew that I wanted her
she was like those fine pieces of art
that you could stare at for hours
but could never touch, she was tempting to the eye
she could burn down bridges with a single gaze
or she could set your heart on fire, I was smitten 
she was a tempting tease, these virgin eyes
slipping off her clothes, one garment at a time
I never stood a chance, she stole my virginity
without a single finger laid......

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Making match sticks from the bridges
We haven’t yet burned.
Making match sticks to burn the bridges
We haven’t yet burned.
So busy with drinking cocktails,
sweating sex in hotel rooms,
 Running from boredom
Soaking up the smiles from homeless on the pristine streets,
Widdling away the reflections in the shop windows,
That’s not me, I am me, here with a flask and an appointment
At a speakeasy, staying busy. 
So busy making matchsticks we ran out of bridges to burn.

Michael F. Lewis
3/20/2014...

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