Trench Poetry

The journal of a man of love and war.

All that I have loved and lost, I fight for; and with these lines, I work to define and remind myself that we are not yet beaten. 

As he entered the war, it couldn’t help but weaken yet make him stronger. Unwilling to speak about his thoughts, feelings, and experiences, he instead summarized them in weekly written posts; posts that brought him to the brink of darkness and awakened a love inside of him he had forgotten. It wasn’t until his wife saw these lines, that she couldn’t help but share the love and loss of her husband; a man she knew not nearly as well as she had hoped. This is C.S. Grit’s second book.

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Week 4

In the distance, faint booms grow dust,
as I do what I must to survive in this wilderness;
I see the panic in our eyes as we look above,
seeing the sky showering, devouring all that lies at its feet.

Week 27

Everything is dry, dusty and sun-bleached,
tired eyes coat my periphery;
ruins, the only reminder, of a former life here;
hot days and manic nights, battling with each other,
between sirens and sand storms;
this is my reality, my home,
I refuse to not see its face;
I see men using means to soften their dreams,
but in the mornings, their nightmares return,
burning all sanity slowing out of them;
I am their father, their brother, and their friend,
the one they can depend on, who in the end
will stay another tour, if I survive this kiss of chaos.

Week 63

The sun, the sand, these people I don’t yet understand;
I see them all and know that hope is physical,
that when it leaves, emptiness takes its place;
when I run, whether towards or away,
bullets now seem to fly as if wept from the sky
to pierce all that scurry below it,
and through it all, I see your eyes crying,
waiting for me to come home,
praying that hope hasn’t yet abandoned us;
you are my hope and this is my emptiness,
I am a man of both worlds,
who now finds himself willing to hurl all heaven and hell
to see your eyes, to feel your hope, and to know that hope is still alive.

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