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The Final Solution I
As innocence receives the mark of man
a war is waged in silent turpitude.
It seeps within the solace of the land
eradicating tides in solitude.
For any soul so deemed to be unfit
fell victim to eradication’s storm.
‘Twas his agenda, strategized through writ,
to replicate the features that conform.
Though death is but a consequence of war,
‘tis inhumane when empathy is lost.
When bigotry is central to its core,
‘tis lunacy that tolerates its cost.
As Einsatzgruppen swept the countryside
a silent stench unveiled the evil tide.
A silent stench unveiled the evil tide
of treachery that crept from door to door.
And, once ajar, it swiftly barged inside
where innocence was gathered by the score.
With dire contempt and mechanized deceit,
it put this pilgrimage upon display.
The road to judgement trudged each cobbled street
as those that bore the blood were led away.
But irony consumed the savage waves
as guilt instilled his militants of crass,
for nothing evil filled those massive graves
nor justified indignity in mass.
As moral madness filled the mind of man,
the rails of death excelled his master plan.
The rails of death excelled his master plan
beyond the bounds of moral disrepute.
Each scheduled route allowed it to expand
an exodus of death beyond dispute.
A massive stream of mechanized deceit
traversed the ferrous corridors of fate.
Efficiency assured it would repeat
its never-ending rendezvous with hate.
‘Twas but a farce that secrecy prevailed
to cloak the doomed migrations bound within,
for gawking crowds, along the tracks regaled
thus, sharing in this spectacle of sin.
This obvious deceit would be denied
as trails of wrath traversed the countryside.
As trails of wrath traversed the countryside
contempt was spread to justify the cause.
A frantic discontent was glorified
to disavow and weaponize the laws.
‘Twas but a sin surrendering the field,
such degradation left a cruel scar.
Now all of blood that pressed the king to yield
must bear this shame and don the Hebrew star.
When Aryan becomes his manic goal
all reason is obscured by blood impure.
As vitriol consumes his rabid soul,
annihilation wields the only cure.
‘Tis but a ruse attempting to disguise
this grand design to automate demise.
This grand design to automate demise
led able souls to tread their final path
A reaper's voice unveiled who lives or dies
as helpless souls would trod the way of wrath.
Upon the landings, masses would unfold
from ribbon rails that drove them into Hell.
Each mother’s child was taken from her hold
as boxcar doors kept clanging out the knell.
Amid the madness mankind would deny
these horrid acts no mortals comprehend.
And hearts of those that eerily stood by
were not the beating hearts of moral men.
Such evil bias buried in this sin
left nothing but an emptiness within.
Book 3: This War of Sons - Sonnets of WW II
Chapter 7: The Final Solution - part I
Copyright ©
Mark Massey
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