Thick in mud, in Flanders fields

He clambered up onto the trenches

Amidst the gunshot and explosions,

Hankering for the comfort of his good wife’s embrace.

The bitter rain cried down from the broken sky

And soaked his bloodstained jacket

With sulphurous tears of terror.

As he forged onwards,

Knee high in mud,

Towards enemy lines,

His mind was awash with

Hope of being reunited with

Those he loved more than life itself,

Yet hope began fading fast

When the wicked shell struck him

In the chest.

Pain he’d never known before

Took over his rational thinking,

And his dying breath was spent calling for his family

Who were thousands of miles back home,

Awaiting his return.

There is no glory in war,

No war can be great.

Each death, no more than a number

To those in power.

Why must this be the way?

Over the top, he is condemned to a bloody death, all for his devotion to king and country

 

Sunrise

About Sunrise

I'm a writer and musician

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