Shoulder strap weaves,
Mud smeared across the gunbarrel
Of a Kalashnikov that’s thrown across the trench.
It doesn’t make it.

Falls down by a boot, points at something,
Someone.
Doesn’t matter anymore.

Just the focus of it,
Lying there,
Contrasted to the tip of the cigarette.

A cough goes unnoticed,
The sound of someone’s breathing.
Someone else is here,
Knowing that is enough to remind me;
That life is full,
And death needs filling.

Cigarette is down to three-fourths

He still need to be buried.

Illumination shows him.
Still as lifeless as before.

Blood across the Red-White-Blue patch
Loosely sewn into the mud soaked camo.
One hand clutching a field pad, the other
A pen.

A good guess that the letter features
At least 3 I love you’s in it.
He was always a sentimental one.

The moment deserves tears,
But glazed eyes will have to do.
Tears aren’t easily imitated.

The constant chatter of gunfire
Is now silent.
Or I’m deaf.

As if anyone could ever be heard,
Everything confirmed.
Never understood.

The tracer’s spiderwebs hazing
The once peaceful night.
Perfectly orchestrated to this cold night’s symphony.
Depressed and glorifying.

Word of beauty can be written,
Only if the hand writes fast enough.

Hands that used to hold a child,
Now flick a finished cigarette into the darkness,
Illuminating the man on the left.

So the rifle is picked up
Off the mud covered trench,
Palms of prayer,
Turn to fists of anger.
Because death is now occupied.

After a heartbeat,
A promise is made to bury
The one on the left.

Maybe finish writing his letter.
With at least 3
I love you’s in it.