Marching
Road.
Endless.
Allow one to be carried by the mob.
Swept away.
Blind fate.
When tired,
they replaced.
But not us.
Chilled,
the bone.
Throats,
parched.
Out of breath
we,
pressed on.
Found Poem: Elie Wiesel- Night
Copyright © Kristenna Gaylord | Year Posted 2011
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