Absolution
As if a wall could stop us, but you know that already, so you make it a hell to which no one any longer wishes to come. Keep the lady in the harbor, ignore her tears, tear off the plaque that graces her base for you claim you are fully sated. But when your crops rot, unpicked, when your garbage lines your streets, what will you do then, who will you call? You say you have no need for us and we all will soon have no need for you, an island alone in humanity’s vast sea, so write your SOS on the shrinking sands of the ever rising, encroaching oceans, and watch everyone pass you by. Or perhaps you will awaken, will remember how your own people got here once, remember what you had, what you may want to have again, and perhaps we will hear your pleas and will consider granting you some small measure of absolution, and invite you back into the world you willingly shunned in your ignorance.
Louis Faber is a poet and writer. His work has appeared in MacGuffin, Unleash Lit, Cantos, Alchemy Spoon (UK), Meniscus and Arena Magazine (Australia) New Feathers Anthology, Dreich (Scotland), Prosetrics, Atlanta Review, Glimpse, Rattle, Pearl, Midstream, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, among many others, and has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. His new book of poetry, Free of the Shadow, was recently published by Plain View Press.