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Waiting

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Waiting, Waiting.
Here I sit.
In a dark, cold room.
No, not a room.
A dungeon.
A dungeon filled with black and white stripes.
Dirt and bodies layer to make a floor.
Will I be the next body?
Waiting, waiting.
The sound of sobbing and growling stomachs put me to sleep.
Shouted demands and blaring whistles shock me awake.
We stand for hours.
One by one falling and cleared from sight.
Will I be the next one to give way?
Waiting, waiting.
We're put to work in harsh weather conditions.
The smell of burning bodies fumigate the camp.
It's such a horrendous smell.
It brings some people to vomit.
Other have only the energy and nutrition to dry heave.
Sometimes, after my sorrowful day, I lay and wonder
When will I be that smell that nauseates?
Waiting, waiting.



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