The Bridge

There once was a bridge, such a pretty, strong little bridge.
it had vines creeping up the sides, flowers of red and blue.
delicate carvings, beautiful sculptings.
beautiful clear, cool, blue water flowed beneath.
tiny fish could be seen contently swimming
making their way down the creek.
each day, people take the bridge, not paying attention to it's beauty.
they run and trample across, crumbling peices as they go.
some take the crumbled pieces, throwing them over into the water below.
some have stopped for a while, to take in the veiw,
however, they never stay long.
some try to patch up the cracks and wear,
not many are successful, they aren't paitent enough to fix them all.
some stop for a while to fish,
removing the fish from the creek.
each day people take the bridge,
sometimes stopping to pick the flowers,
stripping the vines of their grace.
each day people take the bridge, no maitence is done.
the bridge has become fragile.
some of the beams from below are close to collapsing.
quite often, the bridge has become a target of vandalism.
hurtful words are written across it, and sculptures broken.
however, the bridge holds it ground,
using the last of it's strenght to hold up the passing people.

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