UNTITLED POEM (On Reflection About the Documentary Night and Fog)

The cold and empty building whispers,
'Come here.' and 'Step into my embrace.'
'I promise it will be different than you might imagine.'
It is a dead museum
with silently invisible displays:
scratched walls, dusty floors,
black doorways into quiet houses.
Words are useless to describe;
no sentence could 'reveal the true dimension.'
No essay could explore the lower depths;
so, nothing remains,
nothing but the dark, the rain
consumed by the night and fog.