Holocaust
Purple-beaded sweat
that comes in erratic convulsion
from the brow of the dying, green-eyed man,
is falling, falling, falling,
faster now he’s dying, to my feet.
Inside my inner soul
I can feel that self-made expression
crawling outward to
my extrovert caricature;
defiantly seeping to the surface of my world —
and that in the silent grey of cosmic dust —
and my flesh falls from me in one clean slash.
and there is no stench of death —
and there is no tomorrow —
Only the soft sounds of the sighing winds,
as they look back in sorrowing anger,
towards yesterday.
© Colin Gordon-Farleigh
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