empty fields

She drove us into a neighborhood. A neighborhood that was once filled with homes on top of other homes, people filling the rooms and streets and sidewalks. Today it is filled of empty concrete slabs and grass and a construction truck or two. It's infamous number nine hangs heavy in the air.

The wreckage is gone, but the people are still wandering far from their homes in the some proverbial desert.

A few homes sprinkle the fields, but they are the exception, the result of someone's goodwill and hard work.


There is a city rejoicing because it's player kicked a ball through steel posts and won the game. But it is not a city that has healed. Its wounds have bled so wide and far, the blood is gone and dry.

Pain is made evident in the absence of life.

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