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“Up men to your posts! Don’t forget today that you are from old Virginia.” 
– General George Pickett

Beneath Gettysburg's sun a merciless blaze
Stood Pickett with his face etched with war's haunting gaze.
A mind torn asunder and a battlefield worn
Ghosts of decisions a burden he'd borne.

"Forward, brave souls!" rang Pickett's mournful cry
A tale writ in heartbeats pleasure laced with a sigh.
Dark as a raven 'gainst the smoke-stained sky
Where heroes would fall, their final rest to lie.

The Southern sun glared, a tyrant's brow
As lengthening shadows saw cannons sow
Spat fire and fury. Lee, with stoic mask
Unleashed his gambit, a last desperate task.

Our Virginians restless hearts burning bright
Shoulder to shoulder praying names in the night.
A promise unspoken and a vow on their lips
As nervous laughter danced on the wind's icy grips.

Through fading light's setting sun was their chance to quell
They checked their muskets and tightened each saddle swell.
A distant knell a premonition's heavy breath
Of fiery hell unleashed and coming death.

"Pickett's Charge!" Lee's thundering order came,
A clarion call that echoed through the flame
Of dying smoke-filled sunlight.

Pickett, like Ahab on the sea, did waver.
Victory? His Moby White Whale is a specter to savor.
His orders were his harpoon thrown with his might
Into the fight's chaotic ocean, such a fearsome sight.

With unwavering resolve, like leaves in the breeze,
They faced certain death, a brotherhood to please.
Their battle cry echoed, a barbaric yawp,
Over rooftops it rose, a defiant whoop.

With a fearless cry!
We surged across the plain, where heroes must fall.
The tattered flags, like wounded birds, answered the clarion call.

Smoke choked the air, a war's grim display,
Beneath its dark shroud, men withered away.
As Melville penned, "From hell's heart I stab at thee,"
Pickett's charge advanced to claim its destiny.

The cannons roared like dragons as tempests rent the sky
Smoke-like shrouds obscured the lone mournful cry
Of men cut down. Through torrential chaos and despair
We pressed onward with a thunderous and a desperate prayer.

The Union guns wailed a hailstorm fierce and unrelenting
Mowed down our ranks, set every hope on defending.
But onward, we charged a fearless, screaming band
Brothers in arms, for God, our native land.

The high water mark, a victory's gleam,
The Union line wavered, a shattered dream.
Through leaden storms and walls wrought of steel,
With fervent passion our purpose revealed.

But met with a force both relentless and grim,
Hopes for triumph began to grow dreadfully dim.

Strength waned and the tide turned, a bitter decree
Ammunition was spent, and dreams turned to discarded debris.
Retreat we sounded, a mournful bugle's call,
Leaving comrades lost, a crimson, mournful pall.

Back to our lines, a broken, bleeding band,
Pickett's Charge, now, a scar upon the land.
On 3pm, July 3rd, 1863, the sun beat down hard
Pickett's men charged forth and dealt a merciless card.

Defeat met them; his men lay still.
Victims of sheer ambition's merciless will.

Lee's stoic face plastered with a mask of hidden pain
The weight of loss was a crushing, endless rain.
Reports of fallen had choked each breath
My Virginians forever lost now delivered unto death.

“That old man had my division massacred!”  
– General George Pickett

On moonlit nights, alone, Pickett still resides,
Bearing echoes of those ill-fated tides.
His heart here a battlefield scarred by regret
Where fallen comrades in specters beset.

Blame towards Lee resides in his heart
A heavy anchor was tearing his soul apart.
Their ghosts haunt every footfall, every breath,
In the shadowed realm of relentless death.

No peace he finds but a vigil he keeps
Beneath pale moonlight where memory steeps.
His soul, forever trapped in that fateful fight
Haunted by phantoms lost in the fading light.

The acrid scent of gunpowder still clings
A specter's whisper on the night wind's wings.
The taste of defeat was bitter on his tongue.
A dirge for the fallen and a sorrowful song.

But for the cause with valor we met our end.
Though victory eluded us there was a story to lend.
The South may not rise where the buzzards now roam
A dirge for the fallen, a story retold.

Our tattered flags stained crimson and bold
Hold memories of courage where heroes of old
Gave their last full measure for a dream in vain.

Pickett, forever haunted by their pain
Walks the lonely fields where shadows lie.
"Hold the Line!" echoes in his anguished cry
An ominous order on the blood-soaked breeze.

His weathered leather face was a portrait etched with woe
A burden he carries and a promise to bestow
On phantoms that linger far beneath the moon's pale stream
A silent apology along a haunting, sorrowful dream...

"It was all my fault!" he fell to his knees and cried
As the ghosts of his men stood by his side.
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