'Holocaust' : Poem for Today

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