Still.

-

This bridge to the bus stop knows my frenzied footsteps well. It’s a dance I do everyday. 

But today it stares at me like a stranger, it’s never known me to halt midway. 


Faces pass by in a flurry. 

They all have someplace to be. 

In its last breath the dying winter tells me, even January is making haste to leave. 


Maybe even I should head home now, the sun is getting low. But I want to stand here and let life go by, I feel no need to hurry. 


From its tinsel towers I’ve watched this city preen, on the ground I’ve heard its people scream. 

But from this bridge I see life itself, in the river of tarmac and gasoline.


For is this life not a highway, where stillness is met with death? 

Where the soul is too nervous to look around, too wound up to take a breath?


I know life is a highway, because it’s been mere moments since we met. 

But before we can let ourselves be seen, you’re another memory to forget.

 

And though life is a wide open highway, I yearn to walk the winding lanes. 

But isn’t it so easy to hurtle onwards, than struggle to take the reins?


A jolt against my shoulder reminds me, 

I stand amidst a quiet stampede. 

Like a willow on a forgotten riverside, living undecidedly. 

Too weary to touch the water and too stubborn to be freed,

Yet dreaming to drift far away from this land, into the endless, open sea. 


On this bridge to the bus stop I could live out eternity,

But the city is calling and I must take heed.

Put an end to this listless fantasy, 

And pretend like I have someplace to be. 

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