Friday, March 4, 2016

Bricks



It's raining and cold as I walk
 along the brick street older than my grandfather.
 I contemplate my place in the world as I stroll.
Much like the bricks I'm stepping on, I'm one amongst many, 
only slightly different from the others.
How many feet have trod upon these bricks over the years?
These bricks have seen and heard many things:
unrequited love and love lost,
death and life,
sadness and happiness,
anger and defeat,
even tragedy.
These bricks have seen it all.
I ponder all the people that have walked along this same path
and imagine what they were like.
Where were they going?
What were they doing?
The rain has stopped, and from the bricks
comes water that could not be soaked up by the ground underneath.
The bricks are crying with a thousand memories of
yesterday and today.
The sun begins to shine.


Copyright 2016 by H.A. Larson and may not be used without express written consent from the author.

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