He sat at the pub,
Smoking a cigar, trying to focus on the jazz played around -
Hurts doesn't it? The past, the way it breaks you down?

He had thoughts rankling up his mind,
The downpours paced with them.
A dying, deathly, destructive, damsel -
is how he describes his childhood.

He'd fly through the streets,
With his paper planes -
Listened to the wind dance along to foot taps -
But, in came a truck with khaki wearing men,
Grasped him and his family and his friends.

He saw tall chimneys, fenced huts and nausetic humans,
"Ma, are we going to stay with God?" He cried in jolly.

In days, he couldn't see his parents anymore.
They were suffocated;
So, they left him as their traces.
"Concentration camps," He said to me while smoking.
"Was it my fate, Ms. Therapist? Is being you, a mistake?" He cried, evidence shattered everywhere in despair, in pain.
There was so many things he'd tell me, but his lips were shut.
and his eyes told me more than his  heart.

                           - Anurima Mukherjee

P.S. - This is my entry for the WizzWrite Awards, hosted by cheapxmedicine . This poem specifically deals with a Holocaust victim's struggle with PTSD.