In The Trenches

Changed the title back: possibly more apt this way. The old lie: dulce et decorum est...

The sun beats down with broken-in boot heels,
and not-sea shells fall screaming from the sky.
Sweat beads and drips down brows heavy with steel
helmets, and sun, and fear; fingers clench tight.

A cool breeze carries cigarette smoke and
nervous joking. The word spreads down the line.
Someone is crying. The percussion halts.
No one looks: he chokes back mortality.

Little boys playing at the oldest game,
no kiss can heal the things that they have done,
and torn, and torn, within, without, they cry,
and lull the soon-to-die to fitful sleep.

The nights are dark and cold like soldier's eyes,
which, uncaring, stare into the abyss.
A sudden movement, a shot, and a sigh -
he does not scream. He lays down in relief.