WWI Poetry at its Finest

20140305-191724.jpgDrunk with fatigue,

many had lost their boots.

I shudder as I see a man,devil sick of sin.

You grin as you pass.

Haunting flares; we turned our backs,

stared untroubled as he stands.

With arms outstretched, he plunges at you,

before my helpless sight,

less chanced than I for life.

Yelling out and stumbling.

I shudder as I see him,

flung in the fire.

Bonds to the whims of murder.

[For what? A pair of boots?]

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