(Ode to Quincy L. Burrowes)

Betimes lad rise in glory fields
And win the hearts of damsels fair,
Thus, the labour of his hard work yields
The soul of ladies with golden hair.

Ere death comes he stands tall upright,
Sailing blissfully in sunny light,
Then tis joy soon comes to  night
To sleep he goes with eyes shut tight.

Unfair is cruel life indeed 
Who cares not what humanity needs
But invade us with such sudden greed
And leave our broken souls to bleed.

The morrow may seem to never come
When immortals  we may become,
But before dawn falls the stormy rain.
Let’s leave our marks and not our stains…

Bill Ivans

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