Poem: Bitter-blue Bitter-sweet

Most nights when I am left alone;

There appears an image of my father’s home;

It is a quiet hue of blue;

And bittersweet memories stream through.

 

I fall down on my knees at the doorway-

I see images of the men who must have passed by;

Dirt trailing behind there feat, day and night-

Dirt trailing behind their feet, black or white.

 

I am a privilege, you see-

Save for these bloody memories;

How I left my father and joined another-

Those choices were bittersweet.

 

And when Lincoln called it over;

And my father was the reddened soldier.

I the Yankee doodle dandy;

No fun is it to lose a father;

No fun is it to remember that bitter-blue color-

No fun is it to war with another.

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