Within the filth ridden tunnels

the rats call home,

Lonely warriors sit

scarred,

One that is starving,

One that is sick,

One that has died

his flesh slowly rotting,

Each day back home

his mother cries,

Mourning another "hero",

One more clear death for their hazy future,

Gasmasks for faces,

Uniforms for skin,

Melting into the heart and mud

their guns slowly sink,

Darker pools around them wait,

Wait for their blood to fall,

The cold skies cry

as they watch young boys stagger

across the fields,

My friend held a picture of his sweetheart,

Now it lies in my pocket

splattered with his brains,

My promise to find her 

will not die as quickly as he did.