for all the wrong
This is the end.
Woke up this morning the curtains were a big band-aid over the sun. The window’s just one tiny, gaping hole to let the light in and I wish, I’d give anything, to cover it up and never see it again. But we can’t. No one can.
It's that way with everything that we have.
April 18, 1775, - A nightmare of gunfire and screaming men woke George. Dread rushed through his mind just as it always did when he woke up from his nightmares. He struggled out of bed. This was the third nightmare this month. Granny Nebers, the old woman who lived downstairs, advised him to put garlic under his pillow but it hadn’t stopped the nightmares.
Needing air he opened the shutters of his window. Across the street the steeple of the Old North Church appeared in the dawning sky. He looked up and down the street. No movement. Maybe there wouldn’t be the predicted battle between the Patriots and the British Red Coats. His friend, Paul Revere had forewarned others that it would happen soon, but Paul could be wrong. He had been wrong in his doomsday predictions before.
Just as George turned back to his bed he heard the beat of a horse’s hooves and a shrill voice calling, “The British are coming!” He looked again at the church tower. This time a lantern swung in the wind; one light, the signal that the British troops were coming by land.