Day the Music Died

trench

 

Clenching my M16 so hard my knuckles starts to hurt,

with incessant rain, my uniform covered with sweat and dirt.

Tension hangs heavy as the thick fog, waiting for the go ahead,

brother-in-arms conveys with his eyes the tension without being said.

 

Deafening noise of shells that keeps falling nearby keeps reminding us of danger,

chunks of mud and rocks raining down with it feels larger and larger.

Some wise men said “There is no atheist in foxholes”

everyone praying they were somewhere else instead of this hellhole.

 

Brief break in pace of shooting allows me to peek over the trench,

my sense of smell is overwhelmed by the smell of rotten body stench.

Just as I was recovering from the urge to regurgitate my K-ration,

a bullet ricochet off my helmet leaving me with a dazed sensation.

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s