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Image for the poem Beyond The Old Stone Bridge

Beyond The Old Stone Bridge

                 I sprang forth like a Geyser, outside and up onto the mountain.i got that eager whim coming from a tweeter outside my house,a chirping call in jocund vibes cast a spell on me            
          
From home, at dawn's dawning beam, as the sun still dozing behind the line, like an invitaton to scan and span the whole lands of the hills, passing over the old bridge,  the moment stood still, time froze like a snap shot from long ago eons, black and white, as the mist with its heavy weight lays its thick cloak on the distant hills, swallowing the green pine forest like an ogre would take it in one gulp.            
          
The trickling stream down under the bridge with dirth, sends a glimmering mirror, reflecting waters' splash in the faint light, barely seen thru' the thik layers of the mist, making the place look like a vague souvenirs, when the vision was just black and white, true or false, good or evil.in childhood's innocence, but today its nuanced with much fake hues, so much more far-fetched news...            
          
Trees with shadowy silhouettes like Menhir in the dark, seem to keep a poetic silence, as they stand motionless on the hills' flank, like gardians of the mist, full of unspoken words within.            
          
On the other side of the bridge, the walk takes roughly a mile to reach the forest edge, at which skirt, cement construction lines the border, keeping the greeness away, taking some romance away, and abriedging the spontaneous course of the old river of the dogs......            
          
Things that make me turn at high doh with angst, when the alibi given is the urbanism of the town, the modernism of nature, I have then to worry about my own self, to be trespassed on, and serve as a dam for the coming floods.            
          
I skipped with long strides deep into the forest, leaving behind what plain brain like to chew on, while my destination was only mountain and poetic inspiration, as nothing was left for the artist in me to paint, save giving a few rhymes and gleaning a piece of relief..
   
 
 
      https://youtu.be/zPUHd8hGohw?t=30
Written by poeticdelight (Hamid)
Published
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