Invisible

A Poem Emulation of George Ella Lyon�s �Where I�m From� for Alexander Solzhenitsyn�s A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

He is from the bitter cold

From impermeable frost and biting snow

concealing him from the outside.

(Harsh white,

It stung like fire on his face)

He is from blizzard winds,

The endless taste

Of un-loving ice                  

That penetrates deep into the heart of the guards.

 

He is from barbed wire and mile-high walls,

from unforgiving routine ad brutal normalcy.

He is from the “build ‘em ups” and the “tear ‘em downs”

From the bottomless pool of forbidden contact

and the endless struggle for an infested portion of kasha.

 

He is from strained camaraderie

The understood sense of competition

Pushes them to work together

To survive another day

Another wall

Another meal

Another deal

 

He is from the small comforts

From the stitches in his mattress

That conceal a treasured morsel

A small solace from the horror that is endured

Every day

Three thousand, six hundred and fifty three of them

 

He is from the numbing cold of the body counts

The ache that attempts to stab the soul

And drain it of all compassion and individuality

He is from the ragged huffs of the men

The warm breath that immediately freezes

and joins the rest of the bitter air.

Waiting

Shivering

Freezing from within

Waiting for them to search him,

To rid him of all self identity

And all dignity

He re-dresses, but somehow,

he is not the same as before.

 

He is from the stares.

They look into his eyes

And see nothing

No meaning

No purpose

 

To them, he is invisible.