We loved the 12th man before we even knew what the hell it was.
We wake up at 5:30 for camaraderie and we march on towards the woods
until our feet grow so sore from the brush that we pluck at the skies
for comfort and fallen trees. I will miss tradition.
While I confess to not knowing intimately the feel of an axe handle
next to my fingertips, burn is engraved in the backs of my irises
as firmly as the War Hymn, in the same way that carrying logs
with strangers builds character as much as connections.
The clock is ticking down to the time that those red brick arches
close down around our future like renovated memorials.
I'm scared of the bulldozers; watched them tear down concrete
as if those iron jaws gripped graduations, commissions, and my future
but I will summon the strength in myself to walk past the remains of ol' Army.
I have moments where I grasp desperately at a spirit slipping away from me,
juxtaposed between innovation and respect for those who came before;
but I hope that it remains difficult for my alma mater to completely forget
the angels that were caught between a fallen stack that clipped their wings.
No amount of candlelight vigils will send those souls
back to their hometowns in those portals, but we remember.
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