The poor kept pouring in waves, over the drenched trenches.
Coated thickly in sticking mud.
Their boots took root as they strove,
struggled to swim through the fog on foreign soil.
The acrid taste of metal and blood flood their senses,
intense fear unfurls in their guts, too far to run.
Friends fall to an enemy no longer invisible.
An unfinished piece of work. An image of WWI