In the trenches
Dead hands sit in the mud beside
scar tissue across dead countryside.
Mudslide from all the rain cried
floods the blood-soaked ground.
Death paces, scythe tapping to the beat
as all around the mortars pound
In the trenches
Mirror image over dead man's land,
two sides of the same hand
fighting for a tiny piece of green.
Through clouds of phosgene,
choking and loosening trench coats
the unmasked clasping at their throats.
In the trenches
Wounded lay in the dead lands just feet away
screams in the night keep us awake,
no hope of parlay, no respite in these fields of decay.
Just the sound of machine gun symphony,
missile crash cacophony.
Ghostly echoes of the undead,
never to dream of peaceful meadows again,
not here, in this dugout trench bed.
In the trenches
Skeletal remains, nowhere for the hurt to drain,
no escape from the constant missile rain.
Rats entrenched,
disease and stench.
Waiting for the time
when the whistles blow
and we go over the top
into the killing fields below.
Thanks for reading,
Peace Love and Poetry.
Kyle
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