The Bridge

The old man in his ways is set
And set against the ebb and flow
Of a stream called Time, moving slow.
Not willing that his feet get wet,

Nor the edges of his evening gown,
He sits above it and looks down;
And watches the final season set,
All from a bridge that’s named Regret.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

− 6 = three

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>