October 12, 1870, the last surrender

There it is again, that old familiar pain.
It is clutching at my chest as I feel my color drain.
I reach my favorite chair and I struggle for each breath.
I place a pill beneath my tongue and just hope for the best.
Ever since Antietam it has hunted me just so.
It is like my old opponent, Grant, an unrelenting foe.
I am approaching Appomattox, my struggle nearly done.
I hear the cheers of boys in Blue for it is they who’ve won.
I could not ask more of the Grey for they had little left.
Now I too am about to fall to this traitor in my breast.