Wwi Trench

Treading lightly through snaking, muddy trench Squeaking boots with slippery grooves synch A mass of matted flesh bares its rotten stench Thirsting maggots, doting flies cannot quench No rustic accoutrements adorn, not even a bench Deep longing for warm touches of caring mother, practiced wench But only cold, rancid rain does shriveled limbs drench In crowded hovel, selfishly hoarding space, miserly grinch On the perimeter, attentively guarding every blood-soaked inch At the sound of concussive fire, conditioned body doesn't flinch Chiseled teeth in tandem solemnly do clinch Only my spent gut, as churning butter does wrench With dutiful vigor, watching every strand of demarcated pinch At the slightest, forward motion, my hawk eyes squinch