Trench Poetry Excerpts

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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