The worst part is the silence,
The not knowing when or why,
The not knowing how or if,
In a few seconds you could die.
The abscence of the shrieking,
Of bombs which fall in vein,
The abscence of the shrieking,
Of men in dreadful pain.
The waiting for forever,
For the first bomb to drop,
The waiting for forever,
For the silence just to stop.
The anticipation buzzing,
To hear a single sound,
The anticipation buzzing,
For the fighting all around.
But then the silence stops,
And the fighting does commence,
Screams, shrieks, yells, cries and gun shots,
Then I'm drenched once more in silence.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryPoetry from my imagination of what certain times of the past were like (mainly wars). These are not genuine poems from that time.
