The mother laid her son to rest,
As she did every night.
Perhaps so far the toughest test
In her tortuous plight.
The bombs they fell with shrieking fire,
Amongst her dearest friends.
A situation ever dire,
Without an easy end.
Tonight was different, she knew;
Her soul began to crack.
His lips had turned a frozen blue,
He wasn’t coming back.
The fight for them was good and true,
Now husband, sons she lacked.
The rains came, the soldiers deployed,
Forward they went, devoid
Of any emotion, just employed
To see their foe destroyed.
Sneaking in through the smallest of holes,
Each among them knew his or her role,
Narrow passages awaited them, their goal
To find the center of control.
But alas, before they had begun,
Their foes brought out their heavy guns.
First came the floods, filling the tunnels,
Stopped their flight, gone their chance to run.
Then came the bombs, sharp bursts amid the calm.
The sounds deafening, the force alarming.
And then, to end it all came the chemicals.
The final end, the reaper’s sickle.
Troops lay dead and dying, all for the fickle
And pointless Summer pollen offensive
How boring, how trite, how cliché
A writer who doubts they
have powers of creation.
I guess they become clichés for a reason.
Absence makes the
But it also makes the
He had no other option. Gunshot.
‘It’s cancer’. His world went black.
Driving drunk. Two dead. Guilt everlasting.