| flashquake's First Place for Poetry goes to: Gray |
|
 |
Gray is the color of ashes, spewing from Auschwitz's chimneys and blotting out the sun. Death fills the air so thick we cannot help but suck it into our lungs. The cinder remains of our loved ones cover the fields to fertilize our toil. A fair, ruby-faced nation feasts on our bones. Gray is the color of decaying flesh stretched across emaciated bodies void of breath. Heaped into piles of wasted carnage, loved ones await their final rest. We are forced to dig mass graves for them. We weep in shame, glad that our bodies, though weakened and pained, are not lying beneath our shoveled dirt. We are the walking dead. Gray is the color of ghostly haunts that torment my nights with dreams of the past. A finger juts from an outstretched arm. Pairs of downcast eyes avert my pleas. Trusted friends and neighbors watch but refuse to see. Now snug in their cozy homes, do they think of me? No, I am but a memory faded gray, swept under the rug with the rest of the dust. Gray is the color of betrayal. |
© 2001 by Lynnette Horn | |