The Question Of Someone In Blue Poem by Lynn W. Petty

I held an antique bayonet and wavered
At its feel.
Mute death caressed my palms; seduction lay
In its black steel.
Pock marks upon its blade from rust, marked years
Upon the ground.
Its scabbard gone, in naked silence, truth
Annealed, lay bound.
In evil sometimes beauty lies, as war
Contains much pride.
I held this implement of slaughter when,
From deep inside,
A kindle of some ancient call from life's
Inaugurate day;
A primal flash of sensory, charged thrill,
Of war's melee.
That irreligious charm, that Tophet knife,
Contained a spell.
Not one redeeming feature, still, some men
Are drawn to hell.
Within its forge there was some grace, its line,
Its upward curve,
I think the fascination was the function
It did serve.
We wondered who the person was who clipped
It to his gun.
We wondered if he fell before his battle-
Charge was run.
Or, had he fired his one last shot then used
It as a lance,
To slash a breach into their ranks to stop
The South's advance.
Or did he die on some rampart against
Opposing force?
We wondered if his single death had changed
The Nation's course.
A maze of speculation filled that room,
Of how or who.
But, all we can acclaim; it issued to
Someone in blue,
Since time obscured his name.