There in the trenches
I've seen headless henchmen
Bending spoons
For hapless children
Cremated too soon

Demons croon
They zip
They zag
As the lower class picks their scabs
The gift of gab
Sent towards rips from packs
The rush alone could make one gag!

Have you been there?
Would you go back?

There in the trenches
I've met widows and wives
Carousing with voyeurs
Polishing pikes
Their best years behind
Spent on pyrite-
Euphoric alibis
Which eviscerate bright eyes

Will the Church draw nigh
Or watch the stranded die?

Into the trenches
Few do proudly go
Ash pollutes the snow
Falling like pyrex smoke
You might choke
When violence hits your nose

Deathblows
Thrown by the dead broke
Cross your eyes
And clog your throat
Check your pulse
As an ambulance clears the roads

Would you leave ivory thrones
To reach a people with no hope?

There in the trenches
Christ spent His time
Teaching the poor
Healing the blind
Who are we to stand aghast?
Shrugging our shoulders
Fine wine in antique glass?

When revival comes
Will it move your feet
With Gospel passion
Down the cracking streets?

Could you spare a dime
To prepare a meal
For a drooping reed
With snakebitten heals?

There in the trenches
Good News must flow
Will you remain aloof
Or be the one to boldly go?

I can feel your little bites, like parasites
breaking down effervescent days
into still, silent nights; prying porous flesh
with the scent of death,
lingering in cratered moonlit breath.
Is this where i was meant to be led,
repeatedly fed, to these hungered hands?
again, my feet scrape this familiar path
wearing down the dirt that buries me,
internally. covering everything that hurts,
so i can never be allowed to scream.
split my lungs and let them seep,
release all i have held in when i breathe;
weak waves and shallow water
my song is carried, but still, it falters.

feel my microscopic actions and
minuscule movements
as i crawl between your flesh
robbing you of nutrients;
trying to survive and thrive, like little
parasites

Creepy crawlers, horrors, and lawyers
keep enforcing these busted borders.
They're stalking my chalk lines;
exploring the fine folds where time slows
And my songbirds carry broadswords,
so it's good morning, Deathblows
every time the pendulum tolls.
My silhouette is wedged between
two threads protruding from my neck
and Beelzebub possessed the helm just
to twist my alphabet into a triple threat,
so when I speak the receiver has
to navigate an end-game quest.
But I promise I'll do my best
against these wretched guests
so long as you heed my request
and enjoy yourself no matter
where the road lays etched.

-SLuR & S.K.G.