Barbed wire and mud,
Mud and wire and rain,
Shouts, screams and gunfire,
Never ending pain.
Waiting for our call,
The time for us to fight,
Writing shakily by hand,
Be it day or night.
Another crash and glow of death,
A bomb? Grenade? Who cares.
Across the trenches they're the same,
Hooked up in their own lairs.
Lying on my eaten bunk,
Even moths have fled,
Sometimes I just have to think:
Is this all in my head?
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By Winifred Mary Letts There was a man, - don't mind his name, Whom Fear had dogged by night and day. He could not face the German guns And so he turned and ran away.
"There will be NO cowards in my regiment. We will fight to the death and fight as honourable gentlemen.
#acrostic No, if I reach out, I'll see I have no hand, the trenches empty, God has deserted me, as Has my friends, my army, my family.
A poem by Wilfred Owen written from memory: Bent double, like beggars under sacks, knocked-kneed coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge.
I have always believed that there can never be an excuse for lying, that is until I read this poem.
At the request of @smellyfingers Although the noise of the guns was like incessant thunder in the dark skies overhead; I did not retreat.
A poem about the world war one trenches:. Bang, bang. The guns are still firing. I'd try to go to sleep but I'm to scared. Plip, plop. The waters still dropping. I'd try to get dry if I still cared.
I cry for hunting. My soul it sells. My eyes are burning. I find myself. Alone in my heart. I fled the stars. I call for morning. Alone in mourning. As I wallow on, my depths are more undone.
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