Field of War
Rested here 'pon this bed of snow,
Resting here from many a blow,
Resting here from the prior show,
Resting here after too much woe.
The ice- now crawling up the hands.
The ice- now staining, in teary strands.
Nothing here, but death forevermore-
Shall there never be, 'pon this field of war.
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One day, I wanted to write a poem. So I did. Done