A room full of shoes nothing else there, Piles upon pile thrown everywhere. They tell of lives lost along the way, Broken heels, lost souls, here to stay.

Victims of war, women, children, men Locked in a crowded room until the end. In this room, fate worse than death, Some drawing their last breath.

Starvation, filth, disease, tears from the soul, At night, they lay shivering from the cold. No blankets, just a stone cold floor, Wind blowing through the crack under the door.

Morning comes. Barely clothed they march them outside, They wish that there was somewhere to go; to hide. But there is not and into another building they are led, All hosed down at once, skin chapped and red.

Some escorted back some led farther, another building awaits, Walk in line, stay together, walk through a gate. Panic. Everyone tries to escape their death; They gasp for air as the gas takes their last breath.

Gunshots echo the compound victims lined the wall, One by one, they’re hit, they bleed, they fall. Throw in a wagon taken to crematory where they burn, And in the building, the others fear their turn.

No scrap of body nor bones, identity erased, The number on their hand disappeared without a trace. All victims of man’s power, prejudice, and greed, Ghosts haunt the room of shoes, and the walls bleed.

© Cynthia Clark