Thank you for all the kind words, I'll continue
.
Shellshock DreamsShrieking with furious madness
a spinning top, dizzy with sadness.
A condition of the human spirit
to kill one self for country and.
In trenches where young boys
sobbed. Ducking for cover
and hurrying over. Over the top
over above. Into No Mans Land.
This madness that rules men
to master the Weapons fit,
to destroy a land, and history
too. Welcome to wars own tomb.
Fields of Poppies dancing with guilt,
growing where, a dance began, where
indifference lay. Blown softly, while
limbs and life are far below.
Whizzbangs whistling
in memories of old. Joking
and singing to sound of fear.
The silent killer drowning the soul
your body gasps, coughing and spluttering.
Shellshock and trauma, these men faced.
They sunk into the quagmire of Ypre and more.
Legless and blind, the boys fought on
trenchfoot and rats, they destroyed
innocents one by one.
The gurgling and coughs wracking
and wrecking these young men.
Dead souls, as shells echo falling fast
explosion, shaking the ground and reaping the
earth. Blinding and deafening.
Nothing is heard, lots seen,
as through broken glass.
Ringing.
Bodies torn and strewn
around. The blood and gore,
vivid in mind.
The smell the ungodly
stench raping the nostrils.
Inhuman sounds
and terrible bawling.
People vanishing as they fall
under foot and mud, unable
to stand. Crushed by automaton
empty shells. The innocence
of the young and old, rocked
by it all.
Mud and blood,
the limbs rotten.
You remove your boot
to shake it dry, out comes
toes. You weep and scream.
Death cries and yells, as chaos
reigns, all men cower like babes,
hoping it to end. But oblivious
to the rot and wounds, hurting
them.
Gun firing.
Firing fast, loudly
while the ringing continues and
bombs fall.
A man you know lays in mud, gripping
the stumps and weeping hard, rotten
carcasses surround.
Carrying a bag, over mud and marsh,
groaning with the weight. No light
in the dark, a sniper shot, another
mate dead, but if it's all the same.
Now you are alone and insane.
No more faces of friends or
foes. They're blank and empty
shaking with fear.
Thud.
That one, it's getting close.
Thud.
Getting much nearer,
A man
you know only by rank, makes
a cross.
Thud.
The ground shakes as
you turn white.
Thud.
You pray.
Whistle blowers, time for to die
up the ladder and over the top.
Boys you joined up one by one
over by Christmas, they swore
they sung. But here you are
at the western front, surrounded
by comrades, surrounded by
death. It's all too quiet on
the Western Front.