by Michael Henrik Wynn
Whatever happened to Ambrose Bierce?
There may have been moonlight, or the sun may have scorched,
he may have mounted a horse, or not,
but in 1914 an ill old man moved across an unseen border.
What was on the other side?
There may have been wolves or marching soldiers,
there may have been gunshots or screams,
or roars of canons from his past, or perhaps not.
Where did he go?
He may gone east to a mountain range, or he may have gone west,
or he may settled with steaming coffee or coughed,
perhaps by a flickering fire, or perhaps not.
Was he alone?
He may have seen his solitude in a starry sky,
or walked a drunken alley with a burlesque,
he may have been stalked by faithful canines, or maybe not.
What was on his mind?
He may have been driven by ambition or rage,
bitten by the gold bug, or been invited by a friend,
or purchased discount tickets, or maybe not.
One thing is very certain, however:
Ambrose Bierce is dead.