Final Letter From The Trenches

Dear Ma, if this letter finds Your gentle hands, your quiet eyes, Knowing I have fallen where silence climbs, Beneath a blood-rubbed, broken sky. The wind here howls like wolves in chains, Gnawing the bones of godless ground. The trees wear coats of charred remains, Their arms outstretched but never found. Our prayers are whispered into mud, Where poppies bloom from brothers' blood. And every step is kissed by ghosts Who speak in ash and rusting dust. I held a boy last night, just ten— In dreams of home, he called for Ben, His dog, I think. His mouth was red. He looked surprised to wake up dead. They say that war is glory's stage, But it is just an iron cage Where boys are fed to growling gods With names like Duty, Pride, and Loss. I miss the smell of Sunday bread, Your humming while you made the bed, The way you'd stroke my hair and say, "Storms pass, my love— there's always May." But May is gone, or buried deep. I've seen her gown in tatters weep Across a field of shattered glass Where even stars don't dare to pass. Tell Anna not to waste her tears— This isn't hell, just sharpened years That cut too soon through threadbare skin And left the child I was within. I kept your locket, polished gold— A sun that warms the nights so cold— I kissed it once, and then again, Before the sky turned red with rain. My chest is tight now, hard to breathe— The sky leans in, it will not leave. I wish your arms could hold me still, Like when the thunder touched the hills. And Mama, if you hear me cry Inside the wind or nighttime sky, Please hum that song you used to sing— The one that made the shadows wing. With all I am and couldn't be, Your little boy— Still calling for you quietly.