Mass Genocide

The condemned yellow stars.
Stood in lines, always lines.
Most bare, their clothes stripped forcefully away.
Sorted one by one, ripped from each other,
they counted off, the black ink seared into their limbs.
Tattooed, signaling the grueling road ahead.
Leaden bones and cracked souls.
Their bodies pleaded for mercy,
Aching muscles clenching with each step.
Filth caked onto their skeletons,
skin sliding off piece by piece.
Acid swirled around their stomachs,
begging for forgiveness.
Prayers couldn't help them now.
Their whispered words hidden from scrutinizing eyes.

Crimson blood beneath blistered, grimy palms.
Heavy dark boots and cruel demands
made up their lullabies.
Pretty golden stars,
Don't fall asleep.
The furnace screams your name,
bellowing with lips of flame and red.
No hesitation behind blue eyes and blond hair,
shots tear through tissue,
embedding themselves in dull flesh.
Pinch your cheeks, little stars,
appearance is everything.

The broken become forsaken,
yet they are released.
Marked in life, anonymous in death.
Deadened eyes stare from bare sockets,
as decaying cadavers littered the ground.
Bombs from above rain tears upon the shattered bodies.
Screamed prophecies speak truth.

Memories are haunted dreams,
as frail bodies are picked from the debris.
Can your pale form shine, little stars?