The Journeyman, Walt Whitman

The Journeyman, Walt Whitman Acrid smoke drifts over this lifeless battlefield… Forlorn cries escape from his tattered journal, bound in silence… From above, Vultures circle lazily, stung from below, the burning Eyes of the gray-bearded one, give them pause… Off in the distance, cannons boom, as sons and brothers deny destiny… Blades of grass, turn to dust… Only memories now, hands reach out as pages turn, releasing arrows That pierce every generation, born of his pen… O godless thunder, tear the earth below my feet! O wingless warrior, carry me beyond this sightless grave! I long, for those dreams I once revealed… I long, for my purple mountain streams… Forever etched in acrid smoke, Forever etched… Drifting… Drifting…