deepundergroundpoetry.com
SIX MILLION CHRISTS
those six million plus who wore Christ's fragile form
and let his woeful eyes watch from the gates of Auschwitz,
his bones scorched and hallowed in trenches,
haunting from dusty books, those hazed grey images
that repel yet beg for the study of wasted flesh and desperate want
and the horror of man's dark truth
his holy voice a rasp and whisper barely discernible above the fray of politics
asking if you who can only watch tributes to those long dead
would have stood against the tide of hate that carried so much hell
and let his woeful eyes watch from the gates of Auschwitz,
his bones scorched and hallowed in trenches,
haunting from dusty books, those hazed grey images
that repel yet beg for the study of wasted flesh and desperate want
and the horror of man's dark truth
his holy voice a rasp and whisper barely discernible above the fray of politics
asking if you who can only watch tributes to those long dead
would have stood against the tide of hate that carried so much hell
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