The Forgotten Many, 1865

The Forgotten Many, 1865 

We are often forgotten, many of us forced from the memories of our loved ones and the ever spinning earth. We were once breathing fathers and sons but now we lay silent beneath the soils. Quietly whispering through the trees, the brush, and all oceans of our coasts.

 Caressing the hearts of those that walk among us. Silent we may be, but as a whole, we are never truly forgotten. Merely, we lack importance to many as time spans further. We become pictures with faces but no names. We become a corpse marked in an endless counting.

 Our families become new, losing their roots as they forget or misplace us in their hearts. We stood face to face with our brothers and called them our enemies. Sons died by their fathers and fathers by their fathers.

 Hell found home among our wicked needs. Curating a slow brew of chaos to swell our flesh. We became cross eyed to the vision of our lands. Many fought with no wish to be, while others fought with ferocity to end the belligerence of man.

 Foolish we were, but history is done. Unwritten it cannot be, it is stained upon our country as is a scar upon our skin. But we must bare it with humble pride for it changed our course forever. Could their have been a better course? This, I cannot say, for it was of different times and we were of such youth.

 We were soldiers against our own, either for good or bad, faith or flesh, we fought in honor of our hearts. Or so, I like to think, for no man wishes to be a coward of war. Of any war in that matter, a war with self, a war to sustain life.

 We many, are forgotten, nameless in tombs and quiet in words. We are ghosts of change, of violence, of freedom, and pain. We many, are now fading memories transcribed upon trees, rivers, lakes, ponds, and seas. We are words upon pages in schools, libraries and homes.

 We were all once fathers, sons, grandparents. We were called in our thoughts on either side, fighting our families, our love. Split from the core, an unsightly scene to behold. Gruesome became the pale moon. Lathered in screams of nightly death. Many became stricken in battle and seduced by illness and taken for their last breath.

 Young, a day upon the field and stricken from life. But forgotten are they, for we had no thought of after. Of the burials and grief. We were blind in our hardships but we must be forgiven. We must move forward, if our names are not to be forgotten.

 We pray, you do not forget our battles, our war, our fathers, our sons, or our grandfathers. We pray, our history remains your lesson. Let us never divide upon our lands, let us never find ourselves with blade in hand and blade to our families throat again.

 Let us not grow in animosity, but patience, if we are to sail off course. Let us embrace through the storm, hand in hand, allowing ourselves to find our course once again.
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What do you know of the civil war?

We can be forgotten so quickly. 

Catch more thoughts in, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words

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