There she stood with flag unfurling,
watching o’er the battle’s ending–
watching o’er the bloody ending–
while the bodies piled below her.
There he stood that misty morning,
watching blood run from her country,
watching hope run from her country,
watching it from his own eyrie.
There, the fallen ones did praise them,
praise them for they knew no other
way to live but through this bloodshed,
blood shed by them, for another.
Tags:
blank verse,
diction,
experiement,
Hiawatha's Photographing,
iambic tetrameter,
poem,
poems,
poetry,
rhyme,
rhythm,
syntax,
writing
About Catastrophe Jones
Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.