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Jul 2010
I am but a bridge,
forgotten by those that cross.
I play no big part in their lives,
yet without me they would be lost.
Occasionally they'll stop,
whisper "Hello, good-bye."
But I mean nothing to them,
I'm as regular as the sky.
I safely guide them over,
watching silently as they meet.
But to them I am not anything,
just ground beneath their feet.
A very angst-ridden poem.
Written by
A Haseley
575
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