Soliloquy of the Faltering Timber
(the bridge speaks)
I will speak, though I was never built for speech.
I was raised from faltering timber,
stitched together from borrowed strength
and the trembling hope that I might hold
long enough for someone to cross over,
for I was not crafted by master hands.
My beams were scavenged from half‑formed lessons,
my stones gathered from workshop laughter
that has long since fallen quiet.
I was laid across a silence
no cartographer dared to map—
a chasm carved by absence,
a river fed by unfinished stories.
A first traveller came lightly.
He carried bright contraband of dreams,
and I bowed beneath him—
not from weight,
but from reverence.
He walked as though the world beneath
might shatter at a whisper,
and for a moment
I believed I might endure.
Then came seasons of merchants,
the market of murmured craft
set upon my trembling back.
Words were traded like lanterns,
sparring sold like spice,
and I became a causeway of echoes
between two distant shores.
I was never meant to be a marketplace,
but I bore it all the same.
Years passed.
A second traveller arrived
carrying a heavier cargo—
the kind that bruises the soul
long before it burdens the feet.
He stepped onto me
testing as it were, whether memory
could bear the weight of inheritance.
I creaked.
I confessed my insufficiency.
I told him I was made of
teetering timber,
seasonal mentorship,
and the faint residue
of a vanished dialect.
I told him I was never meant
to carry two griefs.
“What do you span?” he asked.
And I answered:
“I cross only the water of what‑was‑lost,
the river carved by untimely silence.
I lead not to glory,
nor to certainty,
but to a mute shore
where one traveller once stood
and where you now must stand alone.”
No pilgrim rests here.
No stranger lingers.
I am only a bridge
for two travellers and their echo—
a trembling infrastructure built
to hold long enough
for one soul to reach another
before the river takes them both.
And still I hold.
Not proudly,
not perfectly—
but only to its
narrowest margin.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 28th, 2026 05:50
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson), Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments6
A beautiful metaphor woven in these lines where a story is told. Loved it my friend a fave
Glad it travelled successfully. many thanks dear friend 🙏🏻🕊️
My pleasure my friend
A beautiful piece
Thank you dear friend 🙏🏻🕊️
most welcome
Good, erm, birthday write there A!
Thanks O🙏🏻🕊️
My friend, this is extraordinary. Grief, inheritance, mentorship, and human connection all meet within something painfully aware of its own fragility. Yet inadequacy never prevents it from fulfilling its sacred purpose…sometimes presence alone carries one soul toward another. Absolutely beautiful work. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Bridge of Sighs springs to mind. An Interesting Story and Write. 🌁
Yes! That is a perfect adjacency. Thanks, Kevin 🙏🏻🕊️
My Pleasure.
This is just brilliant. " No pilgrim rests here. No stranger lingers. I am only a bridge. as if that is not enough. And the question "what do you span" is so on target. Nice. Very nice.
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