The Bridge Poem by Ianaldo Prescott Pourchot

The suspended bridge, it has a soul,
And people cross it everyday,
People drive among it, everyday.

The bridge stretches across frigid water,
The water is cold, freezing bitter cold,
The suspended bridge has a soul.

From up above, you can see its grace,
Flying high, you can see it from a plane,
You can see the public driving away.

Colorless gulls soundlessly flying o’re
The gentle mice play fetch on the floor,
Looking for food, they care for each other!

The beaming sun, his light endeavors,
To keep the bridge lit, so the public can see,
And he does well, until the moon is seen.

Then disheartened people come to the bridge,
They sadly look off the swallowing ledge,
And they jump—

And the bridge only stands still—still and tall,
And the freezing water consumes them all,
There was no warning, there was no call.

But the bridge stands firm, doing nothing,
Nothing at all…

For the bridge has never had a palpable role.
He just stands there—motionless in the cold.
But from side to side and 400 meters of height,

The bridge has a soul.