We dug our graves
deep beneath the ground.
A stench of rot,
vermin and piled bodies,
waiting to be found.
We looked up,
and somehow prayed
under the blue skies.
When will this be over?
I write this letter
for the hero who kills,
and for those who were killed—
enlisted, constricted,
with no door to escape.
Western Front:
the only place marked on the map.
Go south,
wave the banner with our weapons,
as if we are proud.
We needed to move forward,
pull the trigger,
bring home the red stain
that will never wash
from our clean hands.
Home.
Welcomed and embraced.
Banners and cheers,
plaques of gold
for being one of the brave.
But is it courage,
to live in a dead body?
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
We dug our graves
deep beneath the ground.
A stench of rot,
vermin and piled bodies,
waiting to be found.
We looked up,
and somehow prayed
under the blue skies.
When will this be over?
I write this letter
for the hero who kills,
and for those who were killed—
enlisted, constricted,
with no door to escape.
Western Front:
the only place marked on the map.
Go south,
wave the banner with our weapons,
as if we are proud.
We needed to move forward,
pull the trigger,
bring home the red stain
that will never wash
from our clean hands.
Home.
Welcomed and embraced.
Banners and cheers,
plaques of gold
for being one of the brave.
But is it courage,
to live in a dead body?
