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Updated: Feb 26, 2019


The fog waits off the coast

Because it holds the souls

Of those who can’t bear to leave,

Those whose lives abruptly ended,

Those with a mission unfulfilled:

The natives who toiled in worship

To their new, confusing Christian god,

The miners who got lock jaw from a rusty nail,

Before holding pure salvation in their hands,

The soldiers, hundreds of years of soldiers,

Who guarded the Bay or died on foreign soil,

Who left their homes without bidding last goodbyes.

The decades of idealists,

Who sought to make a better world

Through smoke and music,

Through flowers and sensuous hair,

Who took a little too much

Of what they thought might be a good thing

And left the earth in a swirl of

Psychedelic light,

Those who jumped the bridge rails

To plummet into turbulent waters,

To die of shock but half way down

Begged to surf the waves below.

They wait

Off shore,

Each in a drop of mist,

For roughly 4 PM

When a fortunate wind will blow them

Back to land,

Back to redemption.

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