I watch from a distance,

As Germany celebrates in merry pomp;

The rise of a new leader from the backdrop.

His shrieking speeches, him strutting about like a comical peacock,

He's nothing but a bird with pretty feathers to cover up the truth.

You, like many others, fall prey to his deceptions;

To his words of hope and promise and glory.

You follow him like a loyal dog,

Killing and doing whatever you please,

But you don't hear the tortured screams like I do,

Because all you hear are the Marks calling your name.

Killing is still killing under the shabby cloak of war;

Who you've become, I don't know,

But I know it's too late for hope.

The flower petals rain from your sky,

And their blood streaks the inner part of your soul,

For when the bugles play their first notes,

I know you will be among the first to go.

They are oblivious to the suffering,

They feel only the joy of victory;

But if they knew blitzkrieg,

They'd be weeping in sorrow and in fury.

You join the people in the square,

And sing proudly to your leader;

But while you join the people in their triumphant cries,

I see the dead bodies piled high.


Well, this is my second poem for Fictionpress. I'm really on a WWII/Hitler/Holocaust kick right now, mostly because that's what we're learning about in social studies, so if don't be surprised if I publish a few more poems about the topic. Anyway, no flames please, and please review!