There are no birds here
There are no trees
Only trenches that run for miles
Seven feet deep.
We do not whisper
We do not sleep
The best things we have are artillery
And the boots on our feet.
Under the winter sky
We dig and we dig
Until we cannot be seen
In the dark land
Where the devil takes his keep.
Red paints the fields
And we turn away
Marching even after the end of the day.
When night falls
Morning will rise
And in the light
We will die
As men who march
Toward the sky.
YOU ARE READING
Embody Me
PoetryA series of emotional poems that aim to make your soul feel something.
