An angel holds a pointed hand
Wind worn marble to heaven high
The flowers dead and dried
Cold eyes which do not cry.
The tarnished stone
Bears date of death
Many decades long ago
Deprived of any upkeep
In dereliction
Weeds now grow.
The leaded inscription
Has begun to peel
The Great War long ago
But the age reads 25
What adventures
Not to know.
What you could have been
Pen in hand
A poet only family knew
Before the blood guts and horror
Of the insanity
It took you.