We sit here to write our letters;
Me and Jack, Tom just over there.
We sit here, wide eyed and stare
At blank paper, stained with ink blots,
Stained with life of trenches,
Stained with these desperate blotches;
Dripping words of hapless hope,
And hopeless hate of here,
Words to give us comfort but
So overused I don’t believe they do much more
Than blast away monotonous day
Receding into an uncomprehending night.

We sit here, blankly vacant and stare
At the hapless sea of khaki
And despair.

And do you cry, dear Adrienne,
When you read my words?
When you hear my voice echo,
Echo through your futile head,
Like a lost child,
A lost boy,
Me, I’m lost,
Out here and alone with nothing,
Nothing but an old song
We used to listen to once.
Once.
Now I recall these faint flutterings,
Birds’ wings beginning to live
In the first breath of morning,
The beat of a nearly forgotten song.

It drowns me in its beauty,
Drowns me in its decay,
As I sit and try to recall something to write home about, but
As I open my eyes I see
Not Jack or Tom,
For they are long since gone,
But suffocation in choking mud descending down my throat,
And the stones and blood I swallow as I strive just to stay alive.
I gasp for breath and stretch hands out from the mud
Like a dead man trying to live.
But my body is as heavy as the mud I try to lift,
And we all sink down.
And my grey crystal eye,
As grey as the cold light of this morning,
As grey as the ashes we all go back to,
It turns to stare
Towards you cracking heart of glass despair.