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.