Hitler never cried—I thought about that today
while walking around a factory.
The thought of Hitler crying suddenly
popped into my mind and it was odd to me.
I thought about his neatly trimmed dark mustache
contrasted against his pasty white middle-aged skin.
I thought about all those naked people
lying in shallow graves.
Who would do such a thing?
The person that murders like that, cannot shed a tear.
Not out of pity, or compassion,
not while he’s laughing, and drinking Bavarian beer.
Then I thought, perhaps little Adolf,
maybe he could have shed one tear,
when his mother yanked on his tiny pink ear.
Out would roll one salty drop of fluid
from his eye down to the hardwood floor—
for punishment albeit. That’s
when I saw those puffs of smoke
like smoke signals in my mind’s eye.
I felt the shivering cold, I gazed in wonderment
at the ashes raining on corpses,
trees, rooftops, and bees.
I heard the jack boots marching
on cobblestone streets.
Black and shiny, like mirrors reflecting the
the onlookers gasps of deathly fear.
Not one tear dropped from
the strongmen marching, they had no faces,
that’s the reason they couldn’t sob.
They gave into the parade of might versus right;
to the rhythm of Wagnerian mayhem and
the beat of darkness and calamity sandwiched into one