This Bridge

Sitting here upon this bridge
In the dead of night
The street lamp turns on
One minute in every five
And I am startled in each turn
For all the lessons I may have learned
From this
.

Are these words that appear to me to be hung
In the annals of human history
Wrung from the aspirations of
My ancestory
In the future of children told
Of what little I have achieved
.

In these moments of darkness I compose
Well formed sentences that hold
The bold autoaesthetic
The sense of self in the world
The sobbing child curled upon
Soft white linen
.

Words wrung from the torments
Of our mother
Words stung from the unbalanced minds
Of possessive lovers
Words lunge at the passing suggestive whisper
Of love
Words greed and fill the empty needs
Of love
.

Words that last until the last
Tywarnhayle darkness
Are washed away on the whim of
Saint Piran's porth
And I sit and wait
For that light again
So that I may scribble what little
I may achieve
In those rare moments
.

Sitting here upon this bridge
In the dead of night
The street lamp turns on
One minute in every five
And I am startled in each turn
For all the lessons I may have learned
From this
.