The Mud Poem by Emily Lloyd

The hour is among us,
The screaming continues on,
The blood bath has just begun,

He runs across the barren land,
Littered with bodies and blood,
He feels his own heart racing,
Now that the hour has just begun,

Will anyone know of his courage,
Will anyone know how he feels,
Only the other shadows,
That march for their country in fear,

Being stuck in the trenches,
To avoid the inevitable death,
Although now it seems fairly silly,
The men march on,
Towards the gate of endless,
Death and torment,

He slips,
He falls,
He skims his thoughts,
Wondering what will get him,
The guns get fierce,
His senses hyphen,
Death comes and goes on the battlefield,
But for him the torment continues,

The mud,
The stories of men,
Who lost their lives to mud,
Not a way he will end,
Slowly death reaches for him,

It consumes his hand,
It creeps up his neck,
Then the suffocating begins,
His wife, his family,
Are all he cares about,

Will he be remembered or forgotten,
Will his family ever know,
What happened to him on the battlefield,
With the mud that ever grows.