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

Solitude, what were you?

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


if it wasn’t enough,
its buildings
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’,

you never found her’,
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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