The man in the grey suit.

He haunts my dreams, the man in the grey suit.
I saw him first in the corridors of Belarus.
Long, unending corridors whose stench holds the key
To the countless cruelties that sadly linger on.

I wake one night, steal quietly out
sleeping bodies safe in their other-worlds.
Out in the dark passage, suddenly arrested,
I glimpse a figure, tall, cold, brooding.

Grey-suited he was, but then he was gone.
In the stretching corridor I'm left alone
With flashing chargers from flashy cameras
That capture but a fraction of time and place.

I've seen him since, the man in the grey suit.
He chills me still, for I'm plucked from ease
against my will. To the horrors within those walls
thrust upon so many. I shut my eyes.

For what can I do? But I'm not absolved,
Cannot forget. And if I nearly do,
Deja-vu: I find myself running, like Sysiphus
Pushing the stone. The grey-suited man.