The Promise Land

When the bougainvillea bleeds crimson down the sides of the headlands,
and the fuchsia bushes with their firecracker blossoms
sparkle in the fog pushing its way through the gate;
when stairways of sunlight break through the clouds
to climb up and down the hills of this city
whose shine has tarnished from the decay littering its streets;
when the suspension cables collapse from the weight
of tourists and traffic escaping
into and out of this modem day Babylon;
then I will go to the docks, untie the boat from its mooring and set sail
as the seals escort me out of the harbor, and the sea lions
trumpet my departure as they stand and bid farewell.
When the allure of this place no longer holds me,
I will sail out past the gate and scatter myself among the waves.

©Kevin Morrissette

 
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