The Bridge

This is a poem I wrote a while back after watching 20/20 or 60 minutes (one of those newsy shows) about a documentary of people who commit suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. It was very sad to say the least. They also interviewed a guy who is the only known survivor of such a jump. The thing that caught me was when he said that he had given himself an out; if one person (one "angel") spoke to him, he wouldn't do it. But no one did. The show, the documentary, and then the poem all convicted me. I wondered how many times I've hurried through a crowd without making eye contact with anyone around me? Was someone out there desperately needing to be acknowledged, even if just one glance? And did they still feel invisible after I walked by?

People are hurting and while I have no delusions about saving the world, I have tried to slow down, catch eyes, and smile -just in case.

The Bridge

by Amie Sexton

Standing on the bridge’s ledge,
Waiting for one soul to tune itself to my silent scream,
One second glance that says “you are not invisible.”
“Your life is not dispensable.”

Would one hand reach out to jerk me back from the dark abyss?
To shatter the deafening voice hypnotically persuading me
That my pain is inescapable;
The choice is irreversible.

But if I turn back now I’m even less than the nothing I was when I climbed to this place of despair.
White-knuckled grip lets loose the rail; awakened life clings to life all the while death rushes near.

Grasping breath. Mere seconds. What was my hell? It has just begun.

A higher fence? There is none this empty skin can’t scale
And guns or pills would work as well.

Which train I ride is not the point;
It’s the wreckage wrought, the inevitable result.

What is this life? Where is God?
How is it that He hides so well among His people?
Are they His people who pass me by-
Dangling in suspended time;
Unaware of the hollow heart reflected in hollow eyes?