The morning fog encloses
the cold, barren land.
Spectating and analyzing,
the colonel sits silently on his horse.

Voices are floating, lingering in the air.
Whispers, cries, and moans
of the fallen Civil War soldiers
whose journeys ended too soon.

Bodies lay lifelessly all around,
like pawns on a chess board.
Mouths wide open, eyes wide shut.
The fresh creases in their pants
start coming undone and fade
away like the lives of these men.

Their uniforms, wet, from absorbing
the cold dew of the morning fog.
Their lips, purple, as the last bit
of life escapes from them.

It's a cold world.