A/N: I was surprised to find that somebody had actually read the random piece of nonsense I had written in high school and had promptly forgotten about. I was even more surprised when asked for a continuation. I didn't do any historical research on this, so if it's inaccurate, let me know and I'll learn something new. I have no idea how you found this, but user Uni Students, this is for you.

The view of the White House was a magnificent one in the mornings. Watching the sun slant its rays over the curves and folds of the architecture, Walt felt his heartbeat slow from the pounding, pulsating rhythm to a slightly slower beat. The reality of completing an action that one has long anticipated is always much slower than in daydreams.

Open hours at the White House began at 10 am, but already there was a throng of civilians waiting for their chance to speak with the president. The line stretched out onto the lawn, each person dressed in the neatest outfit they could find, although for many of them, the war had taken a toll on their income, and the holes and wear shown despite their efforts to conceal them. Ahead of Walt was a man not much older than him, his leg bandaged and grimy. His face was dirty in the way that only a fellow of the war would notice- it was the type of dirty that remained even when washed for special occasions, when the bearer of the face would wipe the soot off with a rag and pronounce himself clean, unaware that beneath the thin layer of grime was a deep embedded type of dirt, one that stays and stays long past the battle. This is the type of face that will always be unclean. The sight of soldiers was too much like home, where each person holds testimony to the deep cruelties suffered by injured soldiers. In this way, the president was more of a hero to the people than to the country as a whole. To meet with each individual on complaints such as the one held by the wounded soldier ahead of Walt was a courageous one. One that relied on the prioritization of caring for individual suffering over the egotistical mark of only caring for the whole, to decide that each person matters more than the potential glory of presidency. This was what Walt loved about the president. Here, in his home, the president's glory truly shone.

Walt knew there would be a long wait until it was his turn to meet with the president. So, notebook and pencil in hand, he stretched himself out on the lawn of the White House, scratching his words across the paper, trying to find the poem to describe his anticipation.

Abe watched as the people below him gathered at his door. His study with the second floor window gave him a good view of the souls he was going to attempt to rid of suffering with a few kind words and a nod of agreement. There was little he could do for the individual complaint, but, with a notebook in hand and a small tally count being marked for each day, Abe had discovered the greatest way to decide what policies and issues to take on. As much as Abe wanted to give each person full grant to their wishes, it would always be less so about the chord struck within Abe to help, and more so about the numbers, the budget allowance, and the mood of the damn Confederates that would allow him to allot time and money to the needy without taking from the war effort itself. Today, however, Abe looked down in search of one he knew was coming. How could he quiet the quickening of his heartbeat, the racing feeling in his chest? Glancing down at the passerby periodically would not calm him, and turning away and pretending to work out the upcoming budget and strategy wouldn't keep his palms from going sweaty. So what else could he do? Abe was a fool to try and crush his nerves. But what did he know about being a fool?

There. Abe looked down once more. There he was. Sitting below him on the grass, writing. Abe longed not only for the luxury afforded to the poet for the time allowed to write, but for the poet himself. Abe could not contain himself. Gesturing down below at the crowd, he muttered aloud, "the poet over there- look at him. He looks like a man."