Something Taut Poem by Tim Kitchin

Perhaps it is, perhaps it ain't.
We grow alive and then grow faint.

It must be like this when bridges meet,
lurching forth on mud-soaked feet.

The wind whips dust from dried up beds,
and looses words long left unsaid.

But block by block we grew this height,
and now we totter, full of fright.

A life spent spanning just one thing,
leaves rain-wet wire too taut to sing.

Metal drowned in the traffic's roar;
makes perches now for birds to soar.

These rusted sinews strain and coil
and bristle under fresh poured oil.

We've counted cars and taken tolls,
nurtured goats and smacked down trolls.

While underneath the tempest raged.
Seasons passed. Feathered dreams were caged.

In nearby fields cold wars were waged,
While we stayed captive, measured, gauged.

Perhaps it's time to stop the sway,
Let spans now drop and paths decay.

Let's join the torrent; undertake.
Embrace the future. Come, forsake.