My Poetry. The Memory.

An old man rested on the vandalised bench, 
His mind wandering back to his time in the trench, 
Battering, pounding, screaming and death, 
Was all he could hear in a moment’s breath? 
Blood curdling sounds from all different angles
bombs from machines contorted and mangled,
Never a moment of peace in this hell on Earth,
Just voices in his head, tossing in his berth
When will all this fighting end?
Will my life be like this forever? obliged to defend?
Can I survive this ordeal, to one day be free,
Listen to the birds singing in the tree,
Explosions so near, frightened to sleep,
Praying to the lord my soul to keep,
The old man wakened sweating and scared,
From a nightmare so vivid of none he compared,
When he looked around this saddened place, 
Did he fight for his freedom? Or this pity of disgrace?