Life at War
A poem — how long will it last?
The sky is a slate of smoke-filled gray,
mud-caked boots wear heavy,
and every breath tastes of ash.
Here, the wind carries whispers,
fragments of promises,
and names we’ve carved into blooded earth
unspoken prayers pressed into muddy soil.
Each dawn cracks open like a wound,
its light slicing the fog,
exposing the bones of the land.
Here, silence is not peace —
it crouches, lies in wait,
and each second stretches,
like a held breath we dare not exhale.
We trade glances, huddled in shadows,
learning to read fear in one another’s faces,
words unsaid but understood.
We’ve stitched our lives together in trenches,
patched them with laughter when we could find it,
but the air grows thin,
and our laughter sounds brittle, hollow.
Remembering, the scent of morning coffee,
the warmth of a kitchen’s hum.
Now, our senses are trained to metal,
to…
