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Bitter ice crystals form twixt fingers,
fingers webbed, amphibian- my still form
holds my garand silent. I am a gum tree-
pray let me stay rooted to the ground,
frozen entrails of those given flight,
decorate the trees like christmas morning.
frozen blood, black, blue and red,
all shades of man's inhumanity glisten
like dewdrops. Night falls.

It's raining again. Snow drifts sleepily,
illuminated blue and red, bright stars
which fall for a moment, and die-
Dirt rain, ash and upturned soil,
strikes my helmet like the hail of
early spring.
©2008-2009 ~plasticloki
:iconplasticloki:

Author's Comments

I wrote this a while ago, because I'm a world war 2 nut and I wanted to try to envision what it might have been like to be stuck in Bastogne. I'm not satisfied with any of my poetry, which is why I'm posting it, because pain is a good way to learn. Ill fortune, as Boethius says, instructs.

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March 14, 2008
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