Upon this rat-eaten bed I lay my bed,
A mud and barbed wire hovel,
After a long days bloodletting,
The trenches lay heavy with shrapnel and refuse,
Day and light hard to distinguish in the smog,
Bodies alive and not beside one another as brethren,

Rat-a-tat-a-tat,

I carry a small memorial,
The image on this grey photograph feels like an illusion,
A place from a distant fuction,
A home no longer real,
The face has grown indistinct,
The name Elizabeth means nothing to me,

Rat-a-tat-a-tat,

Aside from the distant thumps of artillery,
The only aid to sleep I have is a lullaby of machine-guns,
Repetitive ringing in my head,
Rhythmic melodies of death sent aloft,
In to foreign mens hearts,
A different form of sleep,

Rat-a-tat-a-tat,

I close my eyes,
The gunfire amalgamates with the stench,
A militaristic sedative,
Yet sleep conducts a tactical retreat,
The war goes on,
And the machine-gun continues to sing.

Comments
  1. Powerful imagery,

    “mud and barbed wire hovel, After a long days bloodletting, The trenches lay heavy with shrapnel and refuse”

    Well penned. After all, art/poetry/prose, should always comment on history past and present with honesty. Which you do very very well, my friend.

    KudosπŸŒŸπŸ˜ŠπŸ‘πŸ‘

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