Quiet not a single sound,
We line in groups straight on the ground.
For if we make a single peep,
The monster there our soul he’ll keep.
So many thoughts of what will be,
If that monster targets me.
A rifle’s shot will mercy be,
But what if that’s not my destiny?
I could befall all those torturous tales,
Of what they do to the fickle and frail.
And so I muster up my strength,
To show I’m strong and tall in length.
I could be of help and dump the loads,
Or I could serve in other modes.
It’s each day a survivors woe,
Not knowing what the day will hold.
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Author:
HolesInMyJeans (
Offline) - Published: May 29th, 2025 01:57
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence
Offline)
Comments2
A sad and haunting write, trying to survive day by day in a horrific situation, nicely expressed and written
Thank you
You are very welcome
This seems a literal description of life on the battlefield but well can be a metaphor for life itself. Very nicely rhymed and set in good meter it gives a military appearance. Nicely done
Thank you
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