Sunday, April 24, 2016


(04/24/2016 National Poetry Month HitRECord challenge)

There is a muddy patch at Gettysburg
That has eaten the names and lives
of countless boys in uniform.

The earth beneath the rows of cannons
is drunk on blood and valiant speeches.

None can tell the color of their clothes any more.
Soldier and foe look the same when they're dead,
Spoiled together across green farmland that now only dreams in red.

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