We were sent to a pit
And burried in clear thin
Blood
From the rain and
Mud.  The bayonetts screamed.
My face scared,
My chest opened
And layed out
In a picture that took
ten minutes to finish.
They jumped off
Into my youth
And rolled
The canons down my face.
My image burned
Until I found my self
Under the safty of
Calm waters
Where nothing
Concerned my
Fear.  I closed my eyes
And slowly disapeared
Under the picks and grey
Shovels.  Next to my enemies
Colored servant like the way stripes
Stick to a ball.
Lost and assumed here.  My father and mother believe im still Burried in the mountains.
Underneath a rose bed of yellow roses. Please belive me when I say I m not a foe.  Im not a forrest.  
Im boston.  Im the soft hymn emerson forgot to finish.