Here, after all that, you’d think the conflict has ended,
peace in our time, if not surrender, or perhaps surrender to the inevitable, we
giving up hope of conquest, and sit back to watch the aftermath, what happens
next after Lee gave his sword to Grant, the long walk home with sloped
shoulders, with images of imagined glory still running in my head, like a
scratchy black & white newsreel, her face featured predominantly, as if
part of the peace agreement, someone I continue to lust after long after the possibility
of satisfaction is one, my Vicksburg having come long before Appomattox, this
clinging to something we already knew would not be won, and half the battle
revolved around the need to get better terms before abdicating to reality in
surrender. I acknowledge all I could not have and never will have, watching the
mansions burn, this fading sense of what once was, lost in the haze of what it
has become
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