The Creek

There is a bridge crossing the creek
In which all my immortal souls comes to weep
A place dense with sorrow and grief
A place where there is always pseudo relief
Where the hollows come to feast
And there is a perishing of the weak
There is a bridge crossing the creek
Where all hope seems bleak
Where death is all you will meet
There is no uttering of sounds, because the sorrow in our eyes is the only way we speak
I pray that ought no man dare to seek
The bridge that crosses the creek



Copyright © 2007 Domonique Murdock