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War Poetry
Timothy Brewis, 'T1' 
10th-Feb-2017 01:00 am

With that first blast,
storm of scalding teeth,
I was spun back sidewards,
falling face down in dust.
And as the smoke pall
spread and silence rushed
in from dark places, I left
myself and rose to a vague
height, looked down on
a mangled form, strewn
across the fallows we trod.
Slick hands fumble-fluttered
over ragged, stumped limbs,
tugged at charred, smoking
cloth-flesh-fuse and tried to
staunch the flow that stained
the ground black and daubed
those about with their colours.
Nothing would be the same again.
NOTHING would be the same again.
With a moan I fell and turned
and found myself staring
into eight ball pupils, features,
each, pulled taught over bone
frames, names on the tip of
my swollen tongue then
lost in the leaden flood of the
morphine, lost in the lift and ebb
and the thump of distant rotors.

By Timothy Brewis
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