WHEN WILL IT STOP?

The nights are longer now than before,

always dark and cold, drawing in the mist,

clouding our vision through the prison 

in which we waited. There was no stoppage 

in time anymore, just the silence that 

enveloped around us.

Only with the distant rumble of thunder

could any change in time - the candle of a 

heart slowly being extinguished the only sight 

to be seen through the yellow panes of 

smoke and ash for miles, chocking the life

from the flame.

Clammy and stuffy don't even begin to describe 

the horrors of where I am trapped. Encased in 

the coffin of earth and rubber, always wet and cold

from the rain which ceased to stop, filling our boots 

till they could fill no more. French ground is where 

I stand, and French ground is where I die.

Life lives no more, only the rats see little hope, 

nibbled away from frost-bite of death and disease, 

only the strongest survive the month. Even the horses 

could sense it, their long faces reflecting the horrors 

that were to be expected soon, one last push they say, 

one last push till it ends.

Repulsed by the tightness in which I was trapped I reach 

forward into the yellow cloud, spiralling itself through 

the wire which surrounded me. One breath was all it took 

to wipe the life from the eyes, so that’s all I took, 

one breath.