The Rancid Smell

The rancid smell,
of death in the air,
sitting in a trench,
filled with blood,
filled with death.

I remember the training,
I remembered to keep my head low,
bombs burst,
rifles crack,
machine gun starts it’s dance,
more will fall,
less will live.

Charge over the top,
into no-mans land,
feet stumble,
I try to dodge the fallen,
rifles cracking,
I run on,
towards the enemy,
jumped out with a hundred or two,
fifty or so left.

The call is sounded,
we all turn back,
fresh blood spilled,
over the old,
my mind on fire,
I’ve seen my opponents face.

Scared,
frightened,
young,
just like me,
in the trench.

The smell of death,
worse then before,
with the blood of hundreds,
glistening in the sun.

Just like me,
scared,
confused,
young,
in the trench,
scared of the enemy,
smelling the blood,
seeing the bodies,
just like me,
of our friends,
everywhere.