Abrams

Walking through the fort, 

invisable feet tramping by.

Most dismiss the sound as the wind,

yet I know otherwise.

Walking down steep stone steps,

slick with rain and ocean spray,

a name carved in the stone,

the very day it was laid.

Abrams.

A cold wind rushes by,

I look up and see him standing,

a young solider with fair hair and blue eyes.

Abrams.

He carries his rifle,

still guarding the fort,

even after he's gone,

his ghost still lingers,

guarding,

watching for enemy ships on the horizon.

Abrams,

the guardian of the fort.

Abrams,

the ghostly defender,

Abrams,

the fair haired solider,

Abrams,

the blue eyed ghost.

Abrams.

The End

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