Ghosts of Gettysburg

Jagged white lightning bolts

Illuminate green rolling farmland,

The Land of Milk and Honey split

By curving rough black tarmac,

A solid River Styx.

 

Thunder booms in static air,

Its canon fire echoing:

Past collides with present

On this warm May night

Seven score, sixteen years later.

 

Our history professors taught us:

The northernmost battle,

Three days of considerable bloodshed,

Thousands died on both sides

So, Lincoln said, a “nation might live.”

 

The surviving generations must endure

And dedicate themselves to advancing

The unfinished work, our liberty,

Of those who fought here …

Here on these hallowed hills —

 

Sun-kissed hills where people now walk

In Civil War regalia and red fanny packs,

Old Glory emblems and khaki hats,

Absorbing aura of this place

And laments of combat-weary dead.

 

Today, our country is divided

By isms and ego statuses —

Life a never-ending death march

Of unreachable Western perfection,

Far from history’s deepest lessons.

 

Until freedom sans persecution roots itself —

The heritage of all people,

Not just the proclaimed chosen few!!! —

We are the Ghosts of Gettysburg

Always searching for home.