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Of a Vision in the Anne Frank House

There was something bruised
on your sister's corpse:  Her breasts
once milkwheat gold, now shadow-livid
with welts impeccable from flaying.
There was something
in your sister's tomb debauchery stilled,
a sweat-chilled wind
of something not right
in looming hair-branches.

She was not dead
but at fourteen years
poised to live for eternities.
... I was smitten 
by inescapable truisms, & placed
porcelain gifts inside her coffin
bearing plant life clot-filled,
amid loam from hyacinth fields.

There was something
in her last look suspended
which said another would take
her growth from there
& to the masses give back truth.

(An uncontrolled sustenance?) 

As only a child prophet mired in slumber
could give to the memory of still-born souls.