Battered soldiers, weary men, longing for home.
Standing for hours, rest comes soon. Rain pours down.
Tired, yet so restless, yelling men, all alone.
Can never sleep, maybe an hour. Rain. Grown men drown.
Damaged limbs, torn minds, feet soaked in blood.
Gunfire, the sound of death whistles past my head.
My orders are clear, keep my head down, I won't budge.
Fearful of the next attack, death is near, the future I dread.
New orders arrive, tension amongst men thicken.
I'm called to my post, thoughts of darkness cloud me.
I hear new orders pass through the trenches. I'm suddenly stricken.
I gather my gun, shells explode. Just let me be.
Simple orders, over the trench, attack the enemy.
Thirty seconds, thoughts of loved ones, heads pounding.
Thoughts increasingly darker, what are the thoughts of our enemies?
Time is slow, heart beats with fear, whistles sounding.
Shells hit the enemy, out of the trench, running, breathless.
Dodging shrapnel and barbed wire, sound of guns, rapid fire.
I choke a scream, no one hears, feel the blood run down my throat. Senseless.
Rust your bullets with my tears, I've told you all about my years, no longer will I tire.
YOU ARE READING
The battle that wasn't won.
PoesíaA poem inspired by WW1 and the traumatising experiences a soldier had to deal with in their day to day life in the trenches. The poem is about a soldier who isn't only fighting a battle for his country but is also fighting a battle with depression.
