Beatrice, I have come to the conclusion,
that I am not a man made for life’s austerities.
As smoke and scattered crimson fill my vision,
my labored breaths become familiar melodies.

The Union is broken, my friends all ‘neath me,
I feel powerless in the face of shots accounted for.
And Beatrice, my words they may soon escape me,
in the face of tan uniforms and broken floors.

Beatrice, man I reckon, is not made of steel,
for his resolve may waver in the face of cavalries,
nor is he as strong as rocks or rails, for what he feels
can weather his soul with the simples of follies.

Not even a heroic voyager of seas and storms
is a painting of what man truly is my dearest.
For he cowers under while the darkness swarms
as he abandons all for safety which is nearest.

Know Beatrice, that man is just like parchment,
each word spoken to him comes alive upon his being,
the creases and folds become his garments,
and his mind carries the strains of ended dreaming.

He can be crumpled and smeared into unrecognition,
torn apart and scattered into the easterlies,
ripped to pieces by the simplest of force or action,
Beatrice, this parchments end, you may soon see.

For I am not a man pretending to be invincible,
I charge with fervor as the offence picks up,
and I fire my rifle as we reach the hill’s pinnacle,
see paper men fall to a volley of lead wound up.

But Beatrice, they volley back in quick succession,
and I see the paper in me pierced and stained,
my dear, as I lose each word in my possession,
my parchment frailly lying in the grass remains.

And like the pieces you see before you,
the letters stored up in your shelves and dressers,
Beatrice do remember each word, all are true,
like this man of paper, living his last efforts.