PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

the foxhole I sit

Is cold as can be

trying to sleep

trying to dream



Just over a dune or two

the enemy is on the move

easing through the cold of night

Uneasy but prepared to die.



With great bangs flares

turn night into day

the enemy is caught

steel death on its way.



soon the carnage is over

the moans of the dying cease to be

giving thanks for being alive

are the remanents of the men next to me.



soon morning light shows death's

deadly path of dead men

young and old, body parts and limbs.

When will it end.



Mother's sons one and all

Each answered that inner call

Nothing personal, no right or wrong,

Their people called and they went along.



At last they have found common ground

joined in death their differences

don't seem to matter now.



The bodies are removed from the killing field

I return to my foxhole

too numb to feel.