It is a bridge, two fingers wide
Where the threads of my dreams dance and proceed
They need to reach the bank of fulfillment
Before the clock strucks twelve at night.

They are made of gold, silver, as fantasies wanted
Also of soil and leaves, as humbleness desired
And of my own flesh and blood, as mortality wanted.
They mix and work together, waiting for the needle to come.

____________________________________

I am getting surreal vibes

Future is such a tough, yet sensitive and unknown thing! ❣

And yes, I do see a Cinderella in the poem ;)