The Dying Embers

The Dying Embers

I’m waiting to meet my maker, to pay my mortal dues.
The time for me is nearing, it’s not the time I’d choose.
I’ve seen the bravest soldiers scream out in wretched pain.
This war showed little mercy, its ugliness knows no shame.

The tear-stained lads just whimper as shells explode nearby,
peppered with the sludge and grime, there’s fear in every eye.
Frightened horses whinnying as they’re forced to carry on.
A landscape scarred with fallen souls, so hopeless and so wrong.

No respite from bombardment, ear splitting is the noise,
As shells explode it drives us mad, no let up for the boys.
Sleep becomes our luxury, seizing an hour here and there
In squelchy muddy trenches the damp finds everywhere.

Our spirits can be broken by the unrelenting surge,
the moans of injured soldiers just push us to the verge.
No man should witness hell on earth, or see the devils work,
Perdition shouldn’t be his guide to the demons as they lurk.

The smell of death is everywhere and it caresses every man.
He cherishes every minute spared in this savage, brutal land.
Each sweethearts picture tenderly stroked and kissed with loving care,
thoughts of home, and a roaring fire, give rise to his despair.

No man can ever live this war and live without the fear
For pressed within his very soul a horror so severe.
No certainty or guarantee could be his saving grace
Just the ravages of what’s to come and what he has to face.

Yet, still I wait for my maker’s hand to claim me from this war.
To collect my broken body now and take me to his door.
I will pray for all who’s left and pray that this war ends,
for I must go, the time is nigh, keep safe my comrade friends!

Lest We Forget.

Teresa Harrison-Best