Gettysburg: A Poem

Their cries still linger here, that once were made out of their fear.
The bullets were flying all around, the bodies were strewn across the ground.
The blood flowing out freely from the wounds, this field of grass their dying tomb.
The glimmer of steel and the smell of death, the sound of men heaving their final breath.
Their screams and shouts are but whispers now, barely heard above the crowds.
Their deeds still echo through all the years, through all the families long shed tears.
Now here they lay, naught but bone,
Their immortal deeds etched in stone.