Private Voice

A wanderlust courses through my veins,
pride hangs heavy on my shoulders as I sign up,
and here I am crouched in a quagmire.
Fear like quicksand comes in waves
swallowing me whole.

A pulse in my eye twitches
mimicking the convulsing body to my right
which spews blood in great magenta pools,
congealing with the rancid water
swelling our feet and our eyes
to bulbous proportions.

Rifle fire peppers the bodies
carefully hauled, stacked and left on the parapet,
their eyes stolen by scavenging crows.
Surreal throaty echoes boom eerily back,
voices from the dead hitchhiking
on the resounding ricochet.

Then silence cuts through the adrenalin cloud,
pierces the air more stealthily than any bullet,
unnerving the agony-retched eyes of my comrades.
We huddle shivering, inaudible sobs escaping
from gulping heaving guts.

Relief saturates our senses,
raises us above the carnage
till we drift on a sea of exhaustion,
fuelled by obstinate memories that filter through,
flooding our minds, devouring the atrocities
as we reminisce of home.

Tracey Louise Brunning

1 kommentar till Private Voice

  • Mats Klasson  säger:

    Thank you, Tracey Louise, for one more poem.

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