Katie D'Ambrosio, 1814

after Meissonier's 1814, the French Campaign

Winter has arrived, and with it comes the war. From the mourning sky, snowflakes fall slowly like hesitant tears and powder the hoof ridden mud well-worn from endless rounds of marching men meeting their demise.

Upon his white steed, bred for battles won, The emperor’s expression is solemn as the looming clouds above. He cannot turn and face the army of dread that drags behind him. He cannot gaze forward with confidence, for the road ahead readily reminds him of retreat, defeat.

In search of solace, he glances downward But, alas, this downcast search is in vain And only yields more pain and shame For among the riddled slush remains A misplaced helmet of A mother’s son, a battalion’s brother slain A bare head once adorned with valor now likely crowned with ice or blood or both Yet another loss, the enemy’s gain.

His failure inescapable, he looks on stony-faced. His tightlipped expression poses the question, of what downfall will follow. Was it all for naught? But despite his pondering, he leads his army onward The neat rows of shivering men who begrudgingly trudge, their bodies aching from hauling their ammo and heavy hearts As they march towards the edge of the canvas towards deadly uncertainty.