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