The Smoke is Black - War poem

The smoke is black. There is no air To cut through fog and eyes that stare At nothing. There is nothing here. But chaos fighting through the tears. I am not here. I cannot hear though now they call- The men no longer men at all. But meat, or wasted lives on life Of higher ones who hold the knife. The duty mouthing Sir turns cruel To mouths that hang on gaping fools For thousand yards. Smoke lingers still. To capture us and wide mouths fill. I hear instead the clamour clattering west And underneath the pride unrests Where I commit to memory, The pleasure passed of one more story. And we survive. Survive For now. Between the shells that sing and bow Before destroying fresher hearts. A younger heart. He, who does cart Love of a maidens sweetened breast, That follows him in trenches lest His life will end. He gives it new to higher ones to gnaw and chew. His clothes hang from his tired limbs Like suns do fall beneath the brim. His life will end. No-one will cry, no tears will bare From neither men nor maidens fair. No-one will cry, no earthly care For meat that rots in smoke-filled air. No-one will cry, the knife does cut Just one more soul as his eyes shut. The smoke is black. There is no air. It cuts through eyes that cannot stare, Yet we survive.