The Blood Runs Dry

Only the morn clears
smoky fields as loathsome fog,
never lifting, never ending.
Steely eyes should cut the swath,
a body’s desire quite lost…
when stumbling on those
long covered in frost.
Cannons still echo through the hills,
battle cries oer the scattered souls,
those discarded dead and dying,
Lincoln’s mourn, nation’s crying.

What lord, this blood and mourning bought?
A thousand more years of blame,
as soulful hatred goes untamed.
When shall the blood run dry?

.

© 2014 John Allen Richter

 

 

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About johnallenrichter

I am an aspiring Poet and adorer of life, a conqueror of nothing. However I am a champion curator of truth and friendship and hold both of those things most dearly to my heart. Welcome to my mind's eye. I hope you will enjoy what you may find and please know that you have a friend here. View all posts by johnallenrichter

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