As I Sit in Hell


Hunched over on a stool of mud, I clutch my only friend

How strange it is this tool of death will never meet its end



The rain mists down upon my hat, and drips softly from the brim

as the droplet strikes the ground, I think that none can win

The weaving trenches are filled with more than mud and blood and rain

they are drenched in sorrow, from countless men who simply wish to love again

For this place cannot be loved, nor can love survive a day

your heart may beat, but it is in vain for it slowly fades to grey

The promise I made to someday return, keeps my focus strong

The sleepless nights, I see her face; it drags them dark and long

I smell her scent, I feel her touch I hear her enchanting voice

Every day I tell myself I made the noble choice

I tap my foot upon mud soaked slats, delaying a putrid smell

i wonder if the boards removed, we would all just sink to hell

Slipping my hand into a leather pouch, I slide out a cigarette

Lighting it, I take a drag, the smoke is stale and wet

It circles round my mud caked face, mindless and inane

Slowing fading into the mist to not be seen again

But I dare not raise my eyes, for I know what lies above,

his image branded on my brain; the face of fading hope and love

The face I see, it does not blink, it does not speak, or smile or breathe

It just hangs upon ragged wire, through which his body's weaved

It is death embodied in a man, as the memory shivers down my spine

I remind myself to be thankful, that it’s his life, it is not mine  



This sour vision of a fallen friend breaks my inner gaze,

as I hear a thing that has not been heard for many blood soaked days

Silence.  I can hear a cough, a nervous whistle, the distant humming of a song

But some prefer killing, shooting, dying to a painfully eerie calm

And as if an answer to the prayers of some the heavens open wide

But be warned they are not from god as hell awaits inside

Thunder claps as the mud erupts, and the rain turns dark with earth

The rising fountains of rancid slush take with them hope and mirth

While these shells bring death for them, they bring another dread

For this is the sign that soon into hell my friends and I must tread

For weeks they fall, whistling, tumbling. To their lines streak the bombs

mixing men, and steel and mud on the field of the Somme

And as suddenly as it began, the shrieking fire subsides.

Now there's nothing more to fear, all tears have now been cried

men shout orders, guns are snatched, feet splash the gooey dirt

We line up quickly, face the wall, for now we are inert

I slide my thumb over my blade--the rusty bayonet

it is now, my noble choice melts into regret

my hand grows white as the dead as my fingers grip

they grip not hope, just steel and wood; a whistle to his lips



The sound is shrill, as I jab my hand, into the slimy wall

I hoist myself to face the field as men beside me fall

Fall to join others in razor cradles, blood drips from dangling hands

the hope of return fading quickly as I enter no man's land

Crackling flashes dot the line as i stumble past the wire

nowhere to go but towards the dazzling cannon fire

I breathe not once, my muscles burn as my comrades slowly thin

i am now lucidly sure, a war that none can win

my rifle flashes within my hands; casings twirl within my wake

she flashes through my mind, the last thought that I make

The metal bites through my heart, blood spurts and flesh is seared

I sink into the crimson ground with a yell that none did hear

Hate has a human heart, for war's the same for none

the time we spent, the love we felt will never be undone



Crumpled on a bed of mud, I clutch my only friend

How strange it is that tools of man can cause a love to end.









Simon Brookfield--March 07