The bridge between those who care,
As delicate as a daisy, cool and fair.
A bridge is built between them,
a sanctury of memory, a dwelling of condemn.
It is built of graphite and hearts of stone,
Hard to break and carefully sown.
Sweaters are adorned and cold greetings shared,
Smiles and frolickers are brutally snared.
The bridge is broke when distance is closed,
Those dozing in the dirt, softly arose.
Yet in the flowing river beneath, filled with tears,
The collapsing crumbles new abode appears.
mayawrites 
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