Cold mud seeps into skin,
gravelly and thick,
a slippery grasp that pulls you deeper
with each reluctant step.

The rain doesn’t stop.
It is the kind of wet
that stays with you,
soaks through your bones,
clings to your uniform like a second skin.

Above, the sky is a murky bruise,
the shriek of shells tearing through it,
a constant rhythm of whizz-bangs
and the earth shuddering beneath your feet.

There’s no room for fear here—
it’s already taken root,
and you are its tenant.
Each breath tastes of salt and smoke,
cheap cigarettes burning down
to nothing in the wet.

The rats, fat and brash,
scurry over boots and bodies alike,
as lice crawl through hair,
a silent army marching
while the world above explodes in fire.

There is no comfort,
only the ache of longing
for a moment that will never come—
a quiet that has been stolen,
like the men who once wore
the names on the dog tags now gone,
left behind in the mud
that never forgets.

And in the distance,
the dark promise of dawn
seems an illusion,
a flicker of light
just beyond reach.

-M. S Chandler