A poem by Dylan Lu
Cranberry High School sophomore
We stand in our graves
The odor of gunpowder burns my nostrils
as I look around, I see thousands
thousands of dead men
just like me
I see their helmets
cradling their head like a turtle shell
dusty and dirty tan rags that were once a uniform
formerly shining leather boots, fallen into disrepair
ragged, torn, waterlogged, and beaten
beaten like the rear end of the officer’s steed
The soil, seven feet deep
we try and peek above the earth
The officer, the man with the white star on his sleeve
bellows commands, we observe a trail
A white trail, a trail like cotton candy, fluffy and wispy
I fear unlike the soft treat, the product of these wisps will not taste sweet
rather, I predict it will be sticky, sticky like a deal with the devil himself
I glance back up at the sky
More and more wisps of white wander the sky
like shooting stars
I feel droplets of tears run down my face
I remember my childhood
I remember wishing upon such stars
I remember beseeching them for tin soldiers
or toy trains
or bicycles
or bowie knives
I remember my mother detailing that these hallowed stars bestow wishes
Hold your breath, Close your eyes, and Hope
much like what I’m doing now
Hiding like a cornered rat, a coward
I may be a coward, but leaving my hole shall grant certain death
I would rather take my chances with these white wishless stars
Thundering roars blare
as the source of the plumes of vapor, the shell, combust upon hitting the ground
We sigh in relief as we believe it to be over
but then our worst fears are realized
I sense a petrifying scent
a scent like pepper, pineapple, and hay
We spot a billowing cloud rolling towards us and we scramble to equip our gas masks
Men scream and blister
Cry out and curse
I pray for the scent of charcoal, pray I don’t share their fate
I close my eyes
I can’t hold my breath any longer
I breath in deep
I know this inhalation means life or death
I am welcomed by that life saving aroma of charcoal
My precious gas mask, my Savior
like the Cross around my neck
I thank the Lord for allowing me to survive
I open my eyes and I nearly vomit in my treasured mask
A ghastly and mind breaking landscape surrounds me
Hundreds and thousands of dead men
no, Comrades
stolen by that evil white star
I peer up from the trenches and stare at the carnage encircling me
we are nothing but dead men
says a dead man
while standing in his grave
Dylan Lu is a student at Cranberry High School and a member of Cranberry Chronicles, the school’s journalism/publications group.
