I am created by careful hands.
Brick by brick, men worked hard
to build me to connect two longing,
disconnected, untamed paths.
As I age with time my scarlet hues fade,
my brick-made walls crumble.
I become a forgotten landscape.
My foundations now tremble.
Yet I think no second was wasted.
Each tire screech I heard, each footstep I felt,
every ebb and flow of my best friend river,
every rain drop kissing my sun-kissed embers,
they all left a dent, a scar, a reminder.
I may or may not stood longer,
but I connected souls, cars, this place better.
Word count: 100
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Joy Pixley
In response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) November 01, 2016.
and dVerse‘s Poetics: If Walls Could Talk by Mish who wrote about Abusing Walls. (Not sure though if this fits the prompt. 😀