Howitzers crashing outside the trenches

Pernicious and lamenting, forsaken

Harbingers, whose thirst never quenches,

The Inhumane Gatling’s grotesquely rattle

Forever of death, the ghosts are waking

Terrifyingly the bell tolls, the whistles shriek

And all around they smell his sickly scent

Foreshadowed, shaking, they stand too


OVER THE TOP! Death cries

Faceless is the grave that devours their souls

Generation departed, doomed, condemned


Poem © Phen Weston

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