The Patriots

Marching King’s Highway, in step to the drum,
stirring the dust, but not hearing the voices
cry from the grave. Drinking whiskey and rum,
as the ghosts long silenced, speak of men’s vices.
Sons follow fathers and the passions die
and the blood runs deep and thick from the grave.
The torches of Truth smothered out, now lie
beneath trampled heroes. What gain for the brave?
A nation moves on lost in vanity
as blood mingled with blood battles despair
in time’s hourglass, locked in eternity,
the sorrow and grief for freedom men bear.
The mourners were heard at the midnight hour
as tales of battle resounded in horror.

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