Bridges to Yesterday

I lived in Ozymandias’ city,
a carver of stone and master builder.
Built the little bastard a huge monument
to last forever in the city square,
his minuscule body swelled to match his avarice.

I remember the city:
crisp, wet and green,
making salty sweet passion on afternoon terraces,
singing wine soaked evenings,
greeting slabs of stone,
working to free what was trapped inside.

The Great Emperor/Asshole said:
“The rains will come back!”
Year after year,
as the desert crept closer,
we fought the invader,
building aqueducts and holding pools
hoarding every drop.

At last, I could not bear
to hear the flowers choking,
so I gave up the city,
and sought a valley of green
far to the East
where the waters flow North from
the land of darkness.

I see the epitaph before me,
look for the past in every slight dip
of the flat and faceless plain.
My bridges to yesterday are almost all gone:
Useless paths to impossible worlds
that should be long forgotten.
The day will come when I will burn
all my bridges to yesterday,
when the rains stop.