War

The stench of death

Hangs heavy in the air;

Death is the smell of my breath

And of my dirty unwashed hair.

They smell us drawing near,

A haze of pungent smell;

In return we smell their fear

For we will send them to hell.

Death is supposed to be a cloaked tall figure

Who takes you gently in your sleep;

But it’s the stab of a knife, the pull of a trigger,

By scared boys who run to their slaughter like sheep.

With courage and pure purpose at heart,

They swarm forth like an avenging flood;

Over the dead and through pools of blood,

They scream “To death, sentenced, thou art!”

They did Great Britain proud,

Allowing us to live life our way;

As heroes, as saviours, I pronounce thee crowned,

And hope we don’t have to do the same someday.

Author's Note

Wrote this when I was fifteen, wanting to just say something since I felt really grateful for everything the soldiers did in WW1 and 2. This is a poem from one of my poetry books. Any comments are appreciated.