Lost by Virginia Hainsworth

Lost.         

To the marching lines of khaki ants.

To the shouts of a corporal not much older than you.

To the exciting unknown.

For comradeship trumps love

In this game of men.

Lost.

To the sound of the guns which took root in your head.

To the screaming black void, which held you in its grip.

Empty eyes searching

For fragments of peace

Amidst a deluge of fear.

Lost.

Sucked into the greedy mud of a French field.

Becoming one with the sodden earth, an impromptu grave.

Your dreams have escaped you,

Exhaled into the universe,

Borne aloft on your last breath.