A rattling clatter
A thousand nails
Falling to a hundred floors
The earth is torn asunder
Flung far
Flung wide
She cries
But deafened ears no longer hear.

So the fire erupts around
Burned once
And breathe nevermore
They hunch
And scurry away
But escape cannot be had
For the blaze is all around

A rending shriek. . .

Mess kits clatter
A comrade's finger
Or an awkward fork?
They find comfort in the mud and muck
Slipping into wet murk
And coming away cleaner

A skeletal claw thrust out of earth
Or merely a convenient resting place
For a tattered gray hat?
They lie all around
Above the ground
In the ground
Under the ground
None more dead than any other

The crescendo rises
But never do they complain
Rather, they put in their 8 hours
And go home to another 8
Only to sleep in yet 8 more
It does not end
No matter how they beg
Deep in the earth
They can only wait
For the end which may never come

A thunderous crash. . .

Or may come all too soon.

- The Dark Caller