A bridge no one crosses becomes a statue of solitude,
A reminder that a form is purposeless sans its essence.
Sudden waves come as a legion, a multitude,
Overwhelming you with matters that yet again seem to make no sense.

Perhaps it was the imagination of the crossing that ruined it,
Or might be the region where it was mistakenly built.
The structure is here now and waiting for its fate,
Will it be a picture of what could be or will it be a realized gate?

Time will pass and it will certainly grow old,
We can maintain it or let rust reach its core.
Whatever happens, stories will be told,
If the thing was a bridge, speculating what it was for.