Shattered Pieces of a Forlorn Soul

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
The tale of a Jew inside a concentration camp who is tortured long and hard, until one day, she see dives into the coffin Hitler provides. That, was her ultimate demise.

(This poem is NOT revised)

Submitted: December 15, 2008

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Submitted: December 15, 2008

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Inside this barbed wire fence,
I stand alone.
Only does he visit me occasionally,
Stroking the soft wooden cover at his feet in an eerie silence,
His bony feet,
The bloody wood,
The deathly quiet,
They tempt me to reach out,
To break out,
Of my hindering tomb of frost and glom.
Sitting down now,
The open palm hurts as it descends from the heavens,
Caressing the wounded flesh as if its intent isn’t to hurt,
But just to be a reminder:
The dappled future of mysterious lore,
That shall only lead to more,
More of this wicked hand striking,
Many a foreign word slashing,
And the sheer look of malice fuming,
Pushing me farther into the dust,
The mud and the slop,
Crushing my spry spirit,
Into shatters of a forlorn soul.
Heave Ho! ,
The workers go,
Scrubbing floors,
Polishing doors,
I weave with my needle,
Quick and fast,
Muttering words of prayer as swift as my hands flash,
Please good sir,
Don't be here,
For I fear,
My time to go is shortly near.
Smoke attacks the reddening sky,
With a billow of stink,
Warms, embers glow in the hearth of bleak,
That bony man's simper shakes my bones,
And the folds of that smooth, old box are opened to the world.
He chuckles gently and his mustache twists with his upturned mouth,
His gleaming fangs growing larger,
And as I slowly slip away,
Charging through that barbed fence,
Ignoring the bite of the pain,
Ignoring the yelping and screaming,
To find salvation and climb inside the haven grasped in his arms,
Isell my broken soul, whatever it may be worth, to the devil himself,
Though he isn't veiled with a cloak,
He is Death,
And shall always be.
The bruises and cuts scarred on my body evaporate,
The dirt on my skin is wiped clean and pure,
And as that small, little fickle man closes the covering of my new tomb,
I salute,
Gaze up to met his cold eyes,
And murmur,
"Heil Hitler…"
To deem this fate as my everlasting end.


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