The Bridge

THE bridge between me and the world sometimes grows thin.
Exposing a horrible chasm; and I fall in,
Unless I avoid the danger of taking a toss
By wrapping my self in myself and refusing to cross.

This cannot always be done. The world is there,
Demanding my presence, on the other side of thin air.
I tread on the vanishing bridge; I shuffle or jump.
And mostly land up in the ghastly abyss with a bump.

As for the depths of the chasm, and what they contain,
I could struggle to tell you, but think I had better refrain.
There is noise, there is wind, there is silence; the thing is a void,
Yet causes contusions. For more information, see Freud.