Concentration Camp Poem by Insane and luving it

Persons there, standing
Are they people or coat hangers?
With folds of skin loosely draped over
Skeletal figures
Hanging depressed and hurt
So thirsty and dry and hungry
for love.
No feeling
Keep working
Tomorrow it may be over
The spindly ash-coloured
Spider looming over.
It casts a shadow
Over their feelings.
Its spikes pierce their thoughts,
puncture their numb state
and strike their hope into the
dust. The dust that clings
to their limp forms, that
houses itself permanently in their
calls for help.
Loss of will as flames lick
the chapels. Burning God's
home despite his inability to be
contained by object or
hatred.
Or Hitler.