dug in,
hoping no shell falls in,
pressed tight against the trench wall -
so that noon's smoke-blurred sun
won't burn away the dirty tears,
as comrades, left and right, fall.
hoping for fare better than rations,
for a peace that's been long absent,
even for a quick death -
respite from this horrific war.
I look to the sky,
And what do I spy?
Mustard clouds creeping over my head,
Slinking and sinking down the pit wall.