Old Bridge,
With your dried wooden planks,
As narrow as they come,
As steep as they make.
I trek to the top,
As cars slowly climb,
Sudden pops and rumbles,
You stand the test of time.
The trailing moss creeps,
Between your splintered seams,
The musty air mixed,
With the scent of timber beams.
I bring to you my secrets,
Whispered,
They spill below.
Caught in a current,
Drowning things I know.
The breeze on Old Bridge,
Is no gentle friend.
Pushing me off balance,
To my knees I descend.
Old Bridge is weathered,
It bends and it creaks.
Tension is strained,
Its deck becomes weak.
I return to a stand,
With my hand upon the rail,
I come to you Old Bridge,
To gain trust,
In my tale.
An ear to many stories,
Etched in your frame they speak.
Wisdom in your structure,
What many hope to seek.
I wonder Old Bridge,
As I turn and nod goodbye,
Who’ll be the last one standing?
Will it be you or I?
By Aimi Medina 10-30-14
Beingtheremedina's Blog 