if one can call it skin
I was a shell, some emanciated creature
marching, marching
guns at my back, anger all around
"Keep up; don't stop. Lie on the ground
and you're dead."
hours passed, days maybe.
my fellow prisoners fell to the side,
perhaps the snow comforted them
as they died falling.
perhaps the sound of the guns
shooting them was the last
sound they heard.
Why can't i die too? i ask
it all happened so fast
when they came, put me and mine
in a ghetto, then shipped us to camps
I am all that's left and here i am
hoping to die on this death march
death is better than this
back home next
