Fire And Fury

Hello, Desdemona here with my first post. This poem is a Holocaust poem from the point of view of the furnaces the Nazis used to burn bodies.  


I live so briefly and the only thing I know is pain.

I see the despair and fear permanently etched into their faces.

Their eyes as a doll’s; glassy and unseeing,

But never without regret of the things left undone.


The ashes of my predecessor’s meals give birth to my blaze,

As I grow, consuming the forgotten and mourned, hating their killers,

I know their death gives me life.

And I wonder if pain and hate are the only things in this world.


I see the children, with their faces ragged and worn,

As though they had twenty years behind them.

They have the carpets of fallen tears woven into their faces,

And the cold stones of death weighing them down.


One seemed to be only resting,

A relaxed look of content spread across his face,

As if sharing the last of his childish joy with a cold world.

In my life, it was the only true light I saw.


I am the very embodiment of warmth,

Yet I fuel the ice in the souls of those who feed me.

I feel the cold emptiness of the husks they throw to me,

And shame that eats away as I wrap around them in a final embrace.


I am a freak show, where outsiders come to watch their own kind vanish into ashes.

I am an all-consuming monster to them, with no regard for its actions.

I am no better than they, who seem to seek destruction of their race.

I am fire, and I burn upon their fury.


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Just a writer looking for words.

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