Darkness In Dachau

Head down, staring at the ground. Nothing hopeful to ponder, only the thought of death to wonder. When it will come is unsure. The number of days past is a painful, surreal blur. Grey clouds only add to the drear. Will the stitched number on my wrist ever smear? It will remain forever, seared on me like this memory. I try to pinch what isn't there, feel the nothing that was my hair. Executions happen every day. Leave a coffee cup stained and you will pay. If not for dead, The Standing Cell, where the confines are arguably worse than hell. Unable to crouch and unable to lay, each breath leading to my decay. Eyes wide with terror, a new group arrives. I think I recognize one, though it's been a while. He catches my stare and begins to-what's that word?-oh, smile. The curve starts to form, like telltale signs of an approaching storm. A full body twist reveals my husband's figure, It's just as I remember from the burnt picture. He calls out and starts to run. Not even two steps and he tumbles to the ground. The memory is done.