The Bridge
The bridge is like a Wicked Lady that I loved.
How does it matter if my windows are open or shut?
I still hear the cars and bikes and trucks rumbling.
The noise never stops just like my mind, but;
When I think of her, my thoughts are louder than the traffic.
I hear not a single car, nor a single Harley.
The inner voice hides the world outside for a while.
Where do these people travel at the break of dawn, with such glee?
Even the darkest of nights don’t stop them from traveling for miles.
The bridge is indeed like that Wicked Lady’s face.
The silent electric cars are her subconscious thoughts.
The Doppler shift of the Harleys racing,
is like the disapproval at the tip of her tongue.
And the garbage trucks gallivanting below my window,
are her tantrums in my blood-clot.
The bridge is indeed like a Wicked Lady that I loved.
