The Trenches

Mud like superglue, makes battle grim,

mountains of slimed clothes, never clean,

boots feel like leaden weights

and the humble sandwich tastes like dirt.

The sweet face of a friend sinks down,

leaving the grief to to fight and show

that this hell is more than enough,

and bitterness bloats the corpse.


Precious moments in the lull to look,

birds have flown, they’ve more sense,

the sun dimmed by the bloody gore

and clouds unwelcome pour more mud.


Soon, too soon, they’ll all be gone,

and their death song forgotten,

all that will be left is the tragic

cry of the bereft childless mother.


We grow old in ancient lore

but never learn to abandon war.

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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