Crisp Trees

Crisp trees.

I look and see the men marching through the trees 

Distant views of dying leaves, decaying on the ground from whence they grew

Oh, if these streets of pavement were but gone, and all I saw were fields of gold,

Then would Providence be subdued in the tyrannical rampage of young men’s souls

Dying to die for causes most just,

Dying to live and fulfill rage’s lust

But the children are left with their ancestor’s crust

And the legacy inherits the active duties of lying by the wayside

Tombs of men fill the earth underfoot

There they lie knowing their wrongs

The things they knew as if all along

There they sing their undying song