A Historical Poem

The Rest
The disillusion is ever growing,
A three act play, poorly timed showing.
Our American Cousin with a surprise ending,
An artist with a penchant for message sending.
An actor with three names and a gun had come to change the world.


And He'll say forgive him Father, for he knows not what he did.
And you'll say treason is something we can't forgive.
And they'll say it's all just such a mess.
And he'll say--nothing because he's dead. 

A few years out and our history books are filled
With bits and pieces of lies and truth, and skilled
Knowledge seekers and history buffs have found
Nothing at all of consequence or bread crumbs on the ground.
Perhaps there was nothing too it after all
A man with a dream silenced by a man with a dream of his own.

And who's to say it wasn't for the best?
And who's to claim tragedy?
And who's to claim success?
Some shed tears and others toasted victory,
And then there is the rest.

The rest all whispered and the rest all sighed,
The rest all spoke about how a man had died.
They say he was a father, he was a friend,
Shot down in a theater, what a message that will send.

It was as if the message was meant for them.
And they received it.
And they mulled it over.
And they had no words.