Whispers (451 Found Poem)

The blood pounded in his head.

He heard the faintest whisper,

“It was a pleasure to burn.”

The numbers 451 stitched on his char-colored sleeve,

he looked at a blank wall,


He listened.

Half an hour passed…

Someone else’s blood there.

Strangers come and violate you.

Someone else’s flesh and brain and memory.

Strangers come and cut your heart out.

Only an hour,

but the world has melted down.

One drop of rain, Clarisse.

Another drop, Mildred.

His heart pumping,

“The man’s thinking”.

So many pages to a person,

we’re nothing more than dust.

A man moved in the darkness,

Blowing his breath on us,

sending the sea to tell us we are not so big.


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