(This was a poem that I wrote for an English/History project, for it is about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire. Although it may seem to be slightly demented, I hope you guys enjoy it. It was among my first free verse poems, and I, personally, adore it.)
Rows upon rows teeming with a familiar display:
Cloned stacks of blouses, immigrant girls ranging in age, threadbare dresses, calloused hands, scattered assortments of buttons, needles lost in hordes of thread.
All montonous,
All in order.
A spark ignited by the mechanical goddess,
A scarlet among the cremes of lace and satin,
Of cotton, of silk, of linen.
The feminine fabrics unconscious of the predator- silent.
As a virus, an epidemic, infecting its hosts,
Scarlet spread.
Pearly whites blackening to ashy flake,
Angels of Heaven burned in the depths of Hell.
Feelings of tire and laborious strain transform to that of panic,
Overcome by fear.
Mobs of girls,
Pretty, young girls,
Shasay to the doors, feet baring grazing the ground.
No grace to be found in their steps,
Only the want of survival,
For another spare day.
Hard pulls on the handles, bodies slamming against the doors,
Only to find their demise.
Locks to keep them in,
Locks to keep them working.
The slaves unknown to the
Civil War.
Fiery stallions lick the skirt of a girl in the back,
As if teasing her,
Just as a brother would another day,
A warm spring day,
A day without worry,
A day etched with mercy.
Today would never be that day.
The girl became a match, a torch, a beam of blazing heat,
The first of many.
Pained screams,
The smell of burning flesh, filled the smoky air,
Lingering, nauseating those still living.
The wailing grew, deafening,
Into a chorus of despair.
With each fallen, another corpse to fuel the flames.
This was its kingdom, a cruel dictatorship:
Destruction.
Floor by floor,
Hope surrendered to an insatiable hunger,
An unquenchable thirst.
A pale, blue eye, owned by a blonde-haired girl,
Lost all life as breath, itself, eluded her.
A pale, blue sky, unappreciated by even the poet,
Became a precious jewel as all vibrancy abandoned it.
Soot fell from the sky like rain:
Cold and depressing.
Bodies fell from the sky,
Attempting to land in the awaiting hold of the fire blankets,
Only to become a suicide attempt.
The tear of fabric,
The snap of delicate necks,
The breaking of skulls against the solid cobblestones,
The pooling of blood tainting the streets.
A man leaned out a broken window,
Dropping girls unknowing of the kismet awaiting them.
One- drop, dead.
Two- drop, dead.
Three- the girl, older than most,
Kisses the man on his cheek; drop, dead.
Four- the man, himself, jumps out the window
Only to join the grotesque masses of bodies; drop, dead.
Naivety intertwined with the awaiting paved stone:
A fatal combination.
Tears escape but turn to steam.
Cries escape but fade into the nearby crackle.
Prayers escape but fail to be heard.
Dreams escape and feed the ravenous fire.
Mangled masses of once remembered persons remain, desolate.
No escape to be seen,
No escape to be found.
Last gasps for air were cut short
As Death greedily strangled the helpless souls,
As fire diminished,
As silence filled the emptiness.
The only sound filling the atmosphere
Was the unspoken words of
Doubt, regret, jubilance, repentance, vengeance
The corpses had yet to speak.
Unphased,
Wealthy families sitting in mansions,
Drinking wine,
Laughing to their hearts' content.
Destroyed,
Poor families sitting in morgues,
Weeping loudly for their lost.
No distinct middle;
Either luxury or torment.
