Thursday, April 27, 2017

1862 poem

Gladiators Of The Sea
Sergeant Theodore Parrott
Iron Clashing, while sirens draw out.
Water boiling over the surface.
The air rushing arounds me.
Screams reverberate around me.
The men’s yells of terror coincide with their yells of victory.
Hope dwindles, control ceases, and muscle memory takes over.
Gun in left hand, cartridge in right.
Tear the cartridge, and pour in the content.
Push down the bullet, and draw the rammer.
Ram the cartridge into the barrel’s base
Remove your ramrod, and prime the cap.
Shoot, then repeat.
Two hours of crashing, and crushing the life out of my enemies and allies, not being able to tell the difference between friend and foe.
Hampton roads just in sight, over the horizon.
The fresh march air slices into my skin like daggers.
Pieces of metal flying with every small victory, and pieces of people with every small battle.
I yell, I scream, I cry as I watch people around me lose their lives for this hell of a country.
“The United States” seems more like “The Divided States.”
Chesapeake Bay never looked more red than blue.. But times are different.
This is war.
War is not selfish.
War is not greedy.
War is not just a battle of the best.
War is the deed of winning only for bragging rights, and reuniting past allies to off each other, and pick them to be killed one by one, person by person, soul by soul.
War is murder.
War is death.
War is devestation.
War is assassination by choice.
In war, your rank decides your worth.
The higher you are, the bigger the loss.
In war, people die.
Soldiers die painful deaths every day.
This country was born of war, and it will be destroyed by war.
A single day at a time.

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