A choice.
A bridge.
Old stone.
Sturdy.
Made by craftsmen eons ago.
Walkway rubbed smooth,
white.
Strangely gleaming clean,
by many feet.
A well trodden route.
A pathway used by all.
Eventually.
Can’t make out.
Hazy shapes in unknown shades.
Shifting.
Moving.
There, but not quite.
Step on the bridge,
then the other side to see.
A choice.
Make a choice.
Cross the bridge… or not?
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