Backs hunched, leaden arms raise wooden death,
Lungs, wheezing out our final prayers.
Hope, a distant candle in the oppressive night, is close,
As wailing Sirens tempt us back to our doom...
Darkened eyes, beacons of ignorance, show nor fear, nor even nostalgia,
From drunken slumbers we stir, but our broken souls advance.
Bleeding life and humanity, the weak aid the crippled,
No signs seen of the insidious danger ahead.
As hissing sulphur demons mock, from dry lips erupts: "Gas!"
And awkward hands grope through awkward packs.
Masks are pulled over clamped shut eyes, lethargy forgotten,
But luck forsakes one, allowing death to descend with scythe at the ready,
While the safely drowning stare dumbly on,
Like beasts into walls of solid mist.
With blanket rising, our stricken comrade claws forlornly at his throat
Begging for merciful death: escape from these fields of punishment.
Now you stand for us, the lost generations,
Witness this game of lies and deceit.
Hear the screaming tortured carcasses cry; see the burning clouds take men's sanity.
You watch, as blood and bile spurts forth from open mouth,
As agony usurps power over his body,
Feel him clutch your shirt in vice-like grip,
And with last strength, utter one silent solemn syllable: "Why?"
What glory is taken from needless murder in mires of death?
Why did we go willingly to a certain slaughter?
We went for you - and what shall be done in return
For our given lives, that you may live yours?
YOU ARE READING
In Return
PoetryI wrote this a while ago, when I was 13 or so. At the time we were studying Dulce et Decorum est by Wilfred Owen in English, and the teacher set us an interesting activity. He read out a line by line description of Dulce et Decorum est, without tell...
