On man's experience of trench warfare.
Photo by https://unsplash.com/@stijnswinnen
So much mud;
It clings and slows my pace as bullets scream their death threats across my face,
Thudding into flesh and bone,
As I dive head first into a water filled hole.
Later as silence falls,
I raise a hesitant head.
So many dead, scattered like leaves in an autumn fall,
Moaning groaning their mercy calls.
Tears, so many tears.
My eyes have run dry for my brothers in arms.
Forlorn I sit and light a cigerette,
Its smoke mingling within the mists of death.
A single photo clutched in my hand,
My only grasp on reality.
Her face smiling across the creases of a much traveled image,
I long for her embrace, her kiss, a time where we can reminisce
So much blood,
It clings and stains as I slowly return to the trench from whence I came.
There are fewer of us now,
Ghostly faces without names
Night falls, and I sleep and weep in dreams where monster lurk and creep,
A miserable night, yet light brings no relief.
For the whistle blows a long sharp trill,
And again we rise to face the Devil's will.
There is no God here,
No angels to carry us as heaven waits,
No pearly gates, no peace just hell.
There's just mud and blood in Passchendaele.