It was another day;
Another day with the sky painted grey, the grass showered red,
The stench of decay.
Miles from home;
Where is home?
It is here with my musket on one hand and my finger poised on the trigger.
The mountain view of bodies piling high.
Father, brothers, husbands, friends…that line was erased.
I heard nothing, I felt nothing and I expressed nothing.
As we marched towards our own kinsmen, the only things that distinguished our
Differences were the Union uniforms and the Confederates.
Our beliefs; their beliefs.
So where is home?
Is it the rotten taste of copper?
The feeling of death overcoming you?
That's what it seemed. Fallen soldiers were befriended by a scavenging crow.
Hot bullets enamored by the feel of shattering flesh.
Where is home?
It's right here.
With my musket, with the fathers and husbands, with our beliefs,
With the taste of rotting copper; with the crown.
Befallen in the field;
Home is in the blood-soaked grounds of Gettysburg.

author's note:
I wrote this poem when I was in high school on my junior year for English.
And I thought, why not put it here.
So, here it is.
Reviews? Thoughts?