he stirred from the waking dream
the only sound was marching feet
the roll of drums keeping the pace  
in the cold distance
the sky was cloaked in grey
and the air was thick with smoke and the scents of war
there was a reckless air to his demeanour
there was a dangerous glint to the steel in his eye
as he rode slow up the hard dirt lane
past the old stone wall carved with the names of the fallen
the thousand faces to go with thouse poor names
haunt his soul
the caskets were empty cause not a single man returned
not a single soul but him
so he stalks these hills
the grey wood barren trees
the trail wet from a late rain
his  tattered and stained uniform hanging loose
from his gaunt form
his cutlass in its scabbard by his side
he had drawn that sword  
all along the trails of the north
all through the desperate years of war
regretting each life he took
now old he eyes reflect only the passing days
he hitches his dead pony to the garden gate
and he will take some rest there
by the sweet roses
they smell like the grand ball that he attended
as a young man with that girl
back when he had promise and a future
back when before he had drawn his sword in battle
when he was just another handsome young man
in his neatly pressed uniform
now he falls to sleep at last to sweet dreams
of her and her gentle hand
time has come for reckoning
the last face he would behold
would be hers
and she was singing softly
as he slipped away
to join his loyal troops once again
for the final march into the kingdom come
and oblivion
his statue now gathers pigeons on the college quad
his face obscured by the shadows of academias desire to analyze
but you can still trace the track of his tears