We are the dead
And dying men
Tongues silent
Thoughts like stars
In a trench
That stinks
In a country
Distant..far.
Jeffers fell
In dawns first light
Snipers bullet
Hit clean and true
Another letter home
Dear friend
Tomorrow
It could be you.
Death here
Has silent wings
Empty eyes
And so few words
The lucky
Take a wound
Back home
With many scars.
Home, with a sigh
A single word
Muttered light
Upon the breeze
The messenger arrives
Out of breath
The order given
We are but falling leaves.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: September 19th, 2025 01:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 26
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Very nicely written a poem of acknowledging the horrors and uncertainties of war. It speaks coldly as one must divorce oneself from feeling in such situations and in its cold like the autumn before winter leaves fall. A very somber poem and a fave
thanking you, appreciated
thanking you, appreciated
You are most welcome
Deep, relevant thought on mankind’s potential for carnage.
so true, appreciated, thanks
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