The bridges always leave you guessing,
Crossing over, intersecting.
Your travel map gives you a clue,
The worn out paper, faded blue.
The marching hike upon the hill,
Your soles cannot bear to be still.
A path that leads you to your fate,
The bridges opt you for mistake.
Cobblestone leaves quiet echos,
It's material stripped bare.
Decades old of active travelers,
Their traces leaving wear and tear.
The bridges stand, without question,
No trembling, beneath your feet.
The firm, shallow handrails hold,
For lovers there to meet.
~
For Korrin, who's always dreamt of travel.
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