Post by cheekymonkey1994 on Nov 18, 2007 16:50:11 GMT
A poem i wrote for history
Etched
For days on end I just sat there waiting,
watching the world go by,
everyday soldiers came and went
for those that went, not all returned.
People say war is glorious, ironic really,
millions died
in just four short years,
war is not glorious. Its hell.
Going over the top was torture.
The dead were never cleared,
so rotting bodies lay,
throughout the battle field.
I remember seeing my best friend,
Shot in front of me, his life taken,
away from him, so abruptly, the look of
terror and pride embedded in his eyes.
Those lonesome nights in the trenches,
rats and mice nibbling at my feet.
The stench of the decaying bodies of friends,
the not so distant sound of shells
As the weeks went on,
we became more and more fatigued,
Quarrels became part of the daily routine,
death of friends became normal.
Gas attacks happened almost daily.
Those who were not quick enough,
did not die instantly, but instead, there lungs
exploded, while blood erupted from there closing throats.
On the final days of the War,
I remember seeing poppies begin to grow,
on that war trodden countryside,
which has been destroyed by that so called Great War.
It’s been almost ninety years, since the War ended,
yet I still see the horrors, every time
I close my eyes. I can not forget.
Just like they can not sleep.
For days on end I just sat there waiting,
watching the world go by,
everyday soldiers came and went
for those that went, not all returned.
People say war is glorious, ironic really,
millions died
in just four short years,
war is not glorious. Its hell.
Going over the top was torture.
The dead were never cleared,
so rotting bodies lay,
throughout the battle field.
I remember seeing my best friend,
Shot in front of me, his life taken,
away from him, so abruptly, the look of
terror and pride embedded in his eyes.
Those lonesome nights in the trenches,
rats and mice nibbling at my feet.
The stench of the decaying bodies of friends,
the not so distant sound of shells
As the weeks went on,
we became more and more fatigued,
Quarrels became part of the daily routine,
death of friends became normal.
Gas attacks happened almost daily.
Those who were not quick enough,
did not die instantly, but instead, there lungs
exploded, while blood erupted from there closing throats.
On the final days of the War,
I remember seeing poppies begin to grow,
on that war trodden countryside,
which has been destroyed by that so called Great War.
It’s been almost ninety years, since the War ended,
yet I still see the horrors, every time
I close my eyes. I can not forget.
Just like they can not sleep.
