Man’s conceit dwindled when – 
Shapeless as a feedbag
Covered with mosaics of mud
Years crept by slowly
Frost gleamed on cemetery flowers
Days turned into darkened nights
Climbed the dead strewn hills
The dying became a part of time
Hearts & pulses beat faster
Church bells no longer chimed
Love was felt through tear stained letters
Shadowy forms became life’s pelting storms
Battlefield stories were cared not to repeat
Hopes lived, but only lived to cheat
They tried, then chose to forget
Duty, stern, & pressing broke
Ties to the killing linked their souls to thee
Life’s tide was ebbing out so slow
Hundreds of months passed since they saw
Or would ever see their families.

Who they were – 
The tailors, the carpenters, the masons
The plasterers, the puddlers, & rollers
The machinists, the architects, the printers
The bookbinders, publishers, & village doctors
Secretaries of War, Seward’s Folly
The merchants & farmers, sons, & daughters
Names of the soon-to-be separated – 
Their images caught on photographs of tin – 
Wives, sweethearts, & lovers
The bloodied, the maimed, the forgotten
Babes in the cornfield led to slaughter
Whole lines irretrievably broke – rope led prisoners
Frightened civilians – frightened soldiers
All malicious fellows wanting the privilege of completing
The Uncivil War Catalog
“But we beg your pardon as we refuse the license
You see, most Southern Gents could not write, nor read
And Northern Gents looked at the whole thing
As an unorganized bore.”

What it all came down to – 
A confused mass of names
They’re all strangers
Wrapping of bandages
Raising of funds
Lobbyists, contractors, speculator$, 
Never exhausted, continually renewed, 
“I wish I were in Dixie” – a march to the sea
Not Bronx Bombers, but rather damn Yankees
Emancipation Proclamation – slaves free? 
“Hey, sensation preachers, the dead of the battlefield
won’t come to you, not even in your dreams”
The whole thing was a reality
Surrender at Appomattox – was the pen
mightier than the sword? 
Traders, spies, John Wilkes Booth (actor) 
Abraham Lincoln – the last casualty of the Uncivil War
Like a funeral next door
It attracts your attention – to your sympathy it taunts
But is very different when the hearse stops at your door.


Copyright © 05/09/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


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