The bridge I'm crossing swings, unsteady.
The cobble stones are overgrown,
the backpack I've grown accustomed to
grows ever-more heavy.
True gold is not something you mine,
it's something you are gifted,
when you're ready.
Below the flow looks deep, divine.
Do I have the grit to ruck another mile?
Join the rank and file?
I don't dare dive
into the river's emerald eyes;
clearly, I'm not ready.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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