Burned Bridges

Ideally
when I think of me
and I often think of me
I see my life as a gleaming city
with bridges of connection from me
to a rich network of sister cities and brother boroughs
The towers of myself sparkling silver in the sunlight
My bridges to the others spanning the miles and years majestically
With caravans overloaded with ideas and love and charity ever-flowing
across strong and well-tended roadways from city to borough to neighborhood to township
in a never-ending stream of friendship, family, brotherhood, solidarity over the age of a lifetime

In reality
when I look at me
and I often look at me
I see my life as a sloppy city
with bridges of connection from me
to the cities and boroughs that will still trade with me
The towers of myself half-built before the workers grew apathetic
The bridges to the others held together with twine, most of the time
With caravans leaving intermittently as the economy in my city, and their city allows
when the chaos in our collective internal politics has windows of functionality and diplomacy
Avoiding the burned-out bridges to cities more chaotic and sometimes more gleaming than my own
In a never-ending stream of poor-planning, missed opportunities, gratitude and hope over the age of a lifetime

I do no regret abandoning the cities
that became actively hostile or subversive
to the stability of my half-assed metropolis
But every now and again
I stand at the at gates to my kingdom
Looking past the charred remains of suspension bridges
to the towers of past ports of trade
growing dim and hazy in the distance
over time and space
dreaming of a gleaming age