The hordes of incoming ships drop your stomach down to your toes.
The spinning flags alert you to the enemy’s every move.
Flying sparks that surround the blacksmith light my soul like a torch.
Sickness plagues the mind and body of the poor souls who live at Fort Jackson.

Fog tiredly crawled across the river, blotting out the far away land.
The crisp moon sits alone in sadness as it penetrates the sheet of nothingness.
The clear night allows you to admire the moonlight, glistening against the shimmer of the river.

Exploding into the night, the cannon’s radiant blast shoved the fear of war into all who had witnessed it.
The whispering wind stealthily crept its way across my skin and into my ear.
Horrified, the bronze bugle screamed a hurried warning in the form of a few musical notes.

Can tour guides really lighten the dark spirit of this place?
How many men said goodbye to their families to live here?
Will Fort Jackson’s past ever be forgotten?
What price was paid to keep this fort standing?

Fort Jackson; the stone fortress encased in a dark feeling of nostalgia, dampened by death and decay that eases my hunger for history and the truth.

Damp, Dark, and Decayed.
Damp, Dark, and Decayed.
Dark, Dark, and Decayed.