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Anne B Jul 2014
No similes
No metaphors
No allegories
No alliteration
No irony
No paradox
No rhythm, and no rhyme
No more stanzas
No more verses
Only
truth:
I miss you.

**2 8 . 0 7 . 1 4
It's not pretty. Why should poetry be a lie to that obvious truth? This is the truth; my body aches, and I think that writing will cure it away, forever. It won't. The world is ugly, so we should not cover up the truth.
John F McCullagh Jul 2014
These empty rooms
devoid of life,
behind a bookcase
in the hall.
This was, for a time,
our home
while the Germans
held the Dutch in thrall.
My wife since dead from huger,
my daughters in a common grave.
I, Otto Frank, the sole survivor.
Is there no one I can save?
Annelise, my dearest daughter,
Miep Gies gave me your book.
The Germans cast it on the floor
without a second look.
Here in your words I find
perhaps not all of you has died.
Here in print your words may speak
for all who suffered, all who cried.
Its small comfort for an old man,
broken, ready for the grave,
but my girl might be a symbol
for all those we could not save.
Otto Frank's discovery of the diary that would become known as the diary of Anne Frank. She would have turned 85 this year had she lived

— The End —