alex pilling - poem


Shell-shocked

The guns boom distantly
and my soul shakes 
as the air is rent apart 
by the shreiking passage 
of countless shards of pain 
and confusion. 
Instinctively I duck down 
crouching in helpless terror 
amongst the blood and the filth 
at the bottom of the trench 
where my soul runs for cover; 
shivering and trembling 
in the dank and murky gloom. 
Tightly compressing myself 
into a tiny foetal ball, 
I whisper to myself: 
"Let it miss; let it go past 
and fall with a soft, 
harmless thump, far away". 
But it's no use. It strikes 
and detonates, slashing me, 
tearing me asunder, 
as did the last one; 
as will the next. 
It had my name on it. 
They all do. 

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