The Golden
Gate Bridge
is a harp.

It’s one
for a giant.

Yet the harp has
never been played.

If it would the
sound would shine.

Everyone would
hear it all
over the world.

The bridges ropes
turning to a line of
raindrops though.

Rush hour
would agree.

The fish long
to be free.

The butterflies
are blind.

Stars fly through
like sand.

Trees reaching
towards it.

Yet no one
hears the pulse
of a promise.