Inside

My city is at war.
The streets are cluttered with drug needles and dead childs.
The crimson stain of blood has become our new whitewash.
Our shops sell bombs, our church has cast aside their Bibles.
Now we preach bullets.
Desecrated hearts litter our street, but we don't care to fix them,
nor even to move them save by the heels of boots.
Taunted by faces, chained to the cement, but freer than I.
They contorted faces unrecognizable,
I'll be among the lucky if I forget.
And loneliness is gone, forever, but I pray for it everyday.
No more are the eyes of others a comfort.
We have transformed our city.
I now live in a place where suicide is the honorable way to live,
and in death, a place no different.