A Letter to Home

Crouched inside a muddy trench,
With drenching rain and dreadful stench,
A boy picks up his pen to write
And soothe his mother's dire fright.

"Mother, don't you cry and fear,
The great war's end is drawing near.
Give it a week, or two, or three,
Then your son is finally free."

"From what I've done though, I'm afeared,
Isn't much to be revered.
No heroics in our reach,
Only death in constant siege."

"But soon, I feel, will turn the tide,
So don't go sleepless through the night.
In time, the war is done and won,
Then, I promise, I will come."

And while he writes so avidly,
Another hums a melody,
Its rhythm is the very soil,
Where inbound shells retain their toil.

Slamming into mud and wood,
And leaving dust where men just stood.
Each and all is ripped and torn,
Hopes are shattered, dreams forlorn.

And as the bedlam's finally past,
Lie there in this hell so vast,
By the side of buried men:
A bloody letter and a pen.