Wilderness
Tilting brims of hats—
For so called service
Indiscriminate dust—
Scattered where there is light
Blackwood limbs frayed—
Under the bloodied skies
Shadows of men—
Stained on thirsty fields
Screaming and thrashing—
His rifle still smoking
As a father cradles his son—
Who soon walks—
Who soon talks—
Who soon slaughters—
At Wilderness at dawn

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