The Gathering Fire of Civil War

The Advent of an American Civil War

I was raised where the ridges roll ragged and red, Where the whip‑poor‑wills cry to the dusk, Where a man learns truth from the land he treads And distrusts all things made of musk. I grew old in the hollows of Tennessee, Where the cedar roots clutch the clay, And I’ve watched this nation — proud and free — Start slipping its soul away.

Now I sit on my porch with a rifle laid Like a memory across my knees, And I watch the world like a wolf in shade Who can smell the rot on the breeze. For trouble don’t come with a trumpet’s blare, a rifle’s crack, Or a banner unfurled in the sun; It creeps like a whisper through tainted air ‘Til the damage is quietly done.

I’ve seen civil wars in far‑off lands, Where brothers turned bitter and blind, Where justice was dealt by trembling hands And mercy was left behind. And I swear on the bones of the men I knew Who fell in the dust and flame, The storm I see rising in America today Is a storm I can damn well name.

It starts when a neighbor becomes a foe For the sin of a different view, When folks don’t argue to learn or grow But to fight for what they know to be true. When the talk turns sharp as a butcher’s blade And the trust drains out like rain, When the truth gets twisted and facts get flayed, Then the country begins to strain.

Some want to tear the old house down And rebuild it Marxist plank by Maoist plank, While others cling to the sacred ground Where the Founders stood firm and frank. Each swears the other is hell‑bent wrong, Each claims the republic’s fate, And the gulf between them grows deeper, wider and long As the lines of a map they hate.

I’ve seen this pattern in foreign dust, In cities that burned in the night, Where the courts lost honor, the laws lost trust, And the truth lost all its bite. Where elections were mocked as a puppet show And justice was bought and sold, Where the people learned what the tyrants know — That fear is a coin of gold. Where truth was told and the lies were bold, A story centuries old.

And I see that coin being minted here In the land I once fought to defend, Where the unAmerican powerful traffic in rage and fear And the lies never seem to end. Where speech is shackled by fragile pride And dissent is a mortal sin, Where the truth gets buried or pushed aside So the loudest can always win.

Now the tribes are forming — I’ve seen it before — And the camps are retreating apart, And the talk around every political door Is the talk that can poison a heart. It’s communists versus patriots in a rising chant -- however right or wrong -- A drumbeat of dread and spite, And the folks who could calm it but won’t — because they know their cause and their fight is right.

Civil wars don’t start with a soldier’s shout Or a cannon’s hungry roar; They start when a people’s hope burns out And they don’t trust each other no more. When a spark — just one — hits a bed of coals That’s been smoldering far too long, And the fire leaps up and devours souls With a fury both swift and strong.

I’ve buried good men in foreign jungles and sand Who believed in this nation’s grace, Who died with the flag clenched in their hand And pride carved deep in their face. To think their country — the one they loved — Might fall to an inward fight Is a sadness that presses like stone above The ribs of an old man’s night.

But hear me now, for I’ve earned my say With scars that the years can’t hide: America’s peril is real today, And the danger is swelling inside. Not from a foe with a foreign tongue Or a tyrant across the sea, But from hearts of the Enemies-From-Within where hatred has taken root And minds that refuse to see.

Still — still — I believe in the land I knew, In the promise that shaped Her birth, In the stubborn strength of the red, white, and blue And the grit of Her patriots born from common earth. If Her people remember the cost of strife And the price that the fallen have paid, If they choose the hard, righteous fight for liberty and life Over communists’ rage, that will not fade ...

Then maybe — just maybe — the fire will die Before it consumes too many in the fall, And the storm that’s brewing across the sky Will break with a gentler squall. But if not — if America’s communist enemies press on And the lessons of time are ignored — Then the path ahead is a path of doubt And America will be scarred, torn and scored.

So I sit on my porch with my rifle near, to growl out this clear warning: A country is fragile when ruled by stubborn mobs and tyrants each and every morning. And blind when far too many choose blind, When reason’s no longer in season. And I pray — Lord, how I pray — that we few patriots Step into the fray, kill the Marxist-Maoist Commies and win at the end of the day. Steep may be the cost of civil calamity, But not near so much as the cost of lost Liberty.

But if we don’t, then mark my word As the sun sinks low in the west: The warning you’ve just now read and heard Is the truth of a man who’s guessed The shape of the storm that’s coming fast And the fire that waits to start — For a nation dies not with a blast But the death of Liberty and the breaking of its heart.

by Justin O Smith