Poem

A cold wind blows, signaling demise in the taking;

Leaves touch the ground, inert for the raking,

All abject in sorrow;

To be laid under the ground in morrow.

Thine wishes were not our own;

We do now prepare to crown

In death so do you last;

But never in past

We of remembrances past cried;

Of how you tried

All efforts to naught;

How you fought.

Thy soul taken too early;

Goes to show how dearly

Hope was bound;

Glory was not found.

The skies now overcast;

A giant shadow does thee cast,

Leaving us to wonder;

Questions that we do ponder.

The cold wind has blown;

Thy spirit has flown,

Your name in lore;

Never was all the more.