The town I grew up
had an oasis of hypocrites
who drowned their solitude
in alcohol. Years later, its bystanders
brought a drought of truth
and everyone drank
their sorrows with blood.

The town became a river
of double knives, machetes
and rifles.

Solitude, what were you?

Its people became bait,
the passersby fishermen
and her,
a desert
in the seclusion of care.
Her tears
became roads to the eyes
of innocence,
but evil
oh evil
were bridges
arching from marrow to marrow
corroding
spines
&
craniums.

Solitude, what were you?

Its crops became bones;
its ground flesh,
meat,
guts;
Mutilated limbs,
a public transportation,
targeted to the poor;
Its sidewalks
derision,
rape,
odium cemented
on the hearts of people’s steps;

and

if it wasn’t enough,
its buildings
became
a graveyard for the unborn.

So Solitude, I ask you,

what were you?

The elders said,

You were a rose
in bloom
of a desert to plant your roots.
You were
a she
on-the-roads of innocence’,

but
you never found her’,
no,
not in the town where
I grew up.

Written by: L. L.

June 20, 2013

—Inspired by a nightmare I had.

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