literature

the smell of cyanide in the morning.

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Daily Deviation

January 27, 2016

the smell of cyanide in the morning. by DameVulpes is painfully true and necessary.

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Suggested by doughboycafe

vvlpes

Published: Aug 30, 2015

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Literature Text

_{.

he was someone
with
thin-boned fists
and
thick muscle
in his chest.

f r a g i l e ,
yet strong and healthy,
he was the
s i l e n c e
of a synagogue,
sacred and still.

until one day
he went
missing.

the locks smashed,
dusty boot prints
walking themselves
^up and _down
his floors.

(rabbi)t's breath lungs perched in a dove's rib cage,
he was peace on a battlefield,
an unwelcome guest,
killed with the olive > branch > he
carried.

.

countless skeletons
passing _down a staircase
they'll never walk ^up again.

it's
only
_{down,
_{down,
_down}}
for
them
from
now
on.

a boy with sad eyes
( so y o u n g,
so bro\ken )

he looks to me,
frailty in his
_q^u_i^v_e^r_s,
desperation in the way he
[ walks. ]

i can't even
look a six-year-old
in the eyes
and tell him,

"boy, you've got five minutes left to pray to a
> God <
who i know won't take the time to
save
you."

next, a man,
once strong and healthy,
now a shambling,
h^{u^{n^c h} e} d
figure.

he
f l i n c h e s
every time a guard's}shadow_{falls
over
him.

i count
all twelve pairs of his

(((((((((((( ribs ))))))))))))

.

and i
remember the
stoic

[ s ]
[ p ]
[ i ]
[ n ]
[ e ]

that
used to be
the
s i l e n c e
of our prayers.

last,
a family,
a long-ago familiarity,
a mother, a father, a small girl.

the father
c r e a k s
like an
old door.

"daughter,"

he breathes,

"do you still believe in your
> God <
who was supposed to
save
you?"

i whisper,
my voice
the replying
s q u e a k
of
| F | L | O | O | R | B | O | A | R | D | S |.

"not now, father.
and
i can't remember
if i ever
did."

.}

auschwitz chambers cyanide gas germans germany holocaust jews synagogue worldwar2 concentrationcamp

"God's hands never graced the Devil."

...

Edit- 09.01.15:
Rearranged stanzas in first part.

Edit- 08.31.15:

Added:

"(rabbi)t's breath lungs perched in a dove's rib cage,
he was peace on a battlefield,
an unwelcome guest,
killed with the olive > branch > he
carried."

...

My entry for Summer Contest: Women in War
Word Count: 144
I have no clue with the lines since it's visual poetry. Do lines even matter then?

A woman in Auschwitz, Germany, watching people as they walk to a gas chamber.
The different people are either familar or remind her of people she used to know.

This is my first visual poetry poem. I referenced heavily off of