1943

The floor of the world, dusty fragrance sharp

is carpeted in sweet white

With no one to appreciate its beauty.

Skeletal trees signal their freedom

waving, bowing, dancing in the wind

that seeps through my thin coverings

nearly to my bones.

I clench my teeth, inadvertently my lip -

ruby liquid, bitter iron to my taste

flows, and I remain powerless to stop it.

Searing pain; blinding rage builds behind

The mask I keep intact to survive.

Only the deepest waters know the coldness

that sweeps through my soul.

A yell, a bellow, a shot, silence.

Eyes to the ground, eyes to the ground,

don't see, don't sense, don't imagine.

The greyblue morning wakes the harsh reality in us.

Motionless, for motion kills,

We stand in the Kommandant's presence

yellow-starred

and beckon death.

by Lara Sloane