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Wilderness Road, 1864

- After Herman Melville

They traveled the Wilderness
to a place they had not chosen
a place where they would die
and sleep upon the shallow graves
of those that fell last year –
their green shoes full of bones
mouldering coats and cuddled-up skeletons
sleep washed open by winter rains.
The trees swayed and sighed soft wind
as toothless grins danced in the firelight
and eyeless skulls kept watch –
The general muttered in the dark:
"That is what you are all coming to,
and some will start tomorrow."

They pinned their names to jacket backs
that their fate might be known,
for in the morning
in glades where pinecones lay,
they would harbor cold death
when the trees came puffs of smoke,
the blind and bloody hunt
marked with dragoon's
cannonade breath, withering
as the sky burned and
the boiling earth spit sand.

The general padlocked his mouth,
his countenance spoke nothing
as he carved small bits of wood
with a small knife.
He wept alone as he watched
the brushfires rage,
burning his two hundred
wounded alive.

He would not cry again.

The silent screams of 17,000
still echo from the heart
of the Chickahominy –
green shoes and mouldering coats
of cuddled-up skeletons
and scores of such
with rusted guns

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