Lonely Little Land
by Renee Rivera
Off the beaten path, there exists a small town,
A settlement plagued by a constant bombardment of rain,
Where the leaves on the trees are persistently brown,
And there is never an outgoing train.
This town can only be viewed from afar,
From the comfort of a passing airplane,
Or the distance of a racing car,
The only way to enter this town is through the faulty imagination of one’s brain.
When examining the town, a passerby will find,
Quaint houses and businesses and stores,
And at that point they may feel inclined,
To think staying in this town may not be such a chore.
But they will soon realize this inclination is incorrect,
For when they notice the stillness of the world that surrounds them,
They will begin to suspect,
This town is a place they want to run from.
When one sees these grounds,
Time seems to screech to a maddeningly slow pace,
To the point where one feels as if they have drowned,
And will never again know the warmth of the sun on their face.
And on this dreary little land there is but one permanent subject,
A lonely individual who sits on a bench in the outskirts of the town,
And watches the vehicles that pass by with a longing affect,
Before beginning to completely break down.
That single town occupant is me, the only person on that land,
And that lonesome land is not a town but a state of mind,
It is grief, a way of being that others rarely understand,
Unless they are within its grasp, the penitentiary to which I have been assigned.
A settlement plagued by a constant bombardment of rain,
Where the leaves on the trees are persistently brown,
And there is never an outgoing train.
This town can only be viewed from afar,
From the comfort of a passing airplane,
Or the distance of a racing car,
The only way to enter this town is through the faulty imagination of one’s brain.
When examining the town, a passerby will find,
Quaint houses and businesses and stores,
And at that point they may feel inclined,
To think staying in this town may not be such a chore.
But they will soon realize this inclination is incorrect,
For when they notice the stillness of the world that surrounds them,
They will begin to suspect,
This town is a place they want to run from.
When one sees these grounds,
Time seems to screech to a maddeningly slow pace,
To the point where one feels as if they have drowned,
And will never again know the warmth of the sun on their face.
And on this dreary little land there is but one permanent subject,
A lonely individual who sits on a bench in the outskirts of the town,
And watches the vehicles that pass by with a longing affect,
Before beginning to completely break down.
That single town occupant is me, the only person on that land,
And that lonesome land is not a town but a state of mind,
It is grief, a way of being that others rarely understand,
Unless they are within its grasp, the penitentiary to which I have been assigned.
Renee Rivera lives in the Central Florida area. She received her Bachelor of Science from the University of Central Florida. She has had a scientific paper published in the Journal of Media Research. When she isn’t writing, she is working on her Master’s degree in User Experience, visiting Disney World, or spending time with her pet bird.