Here we are, standing in the middle of a bridge
Suspended only by a pair of old, fraying ropes
Swaying back and forth, two hundred feet above ground
Wind gusts whistling through the holes of wooden slats
And by the way, dear soul, I am afraid of heights.
I cannot promise I will be the icon of serenity
I cannot guarantee I’ll make it to the other side
I cannot assume that it will be an effortless stroll
I cannot stop the tears from gushing once I cry
But I can take this bridge one small inch at a time
I can stop to take a breath when I’m afraid I’ll die
And even if it takes an hour, a week, a month, a year
I promise you, dear soul, that I will try.