I am

The forlorn eagle of

A once proud convocation.

An adulation is hardly in place

For my station,

But since I continue to

Avoid intellectual starvation

Does not that fulfill the expectation?

 

How does one relate to another Eagle,

Owed palaces of thanks, a show so regal,

In red row upon stone row?

Though knowing the clock slows not a tock,

One nearly fears a mock.

As crisp dew settles and speckles,

One quietly fumbles

With exhorts worth hardly mumbles

In red row upon stone row.

 

How does one say to a mentor,

Will you join them

In red row upon stone row?

Are you ready to hem

Your mind, you palomino?

Grim and gray

We continued to stay

In red row upon stone row.

 

When does one tend to a friend

Of what needs to not have end

In red row upon stone row?

Indeed! How do

The good ones end?

Well then! Silence is golden,

But when does one embolden?

Especially when amongst

Red row upon stone row?

 

I am left

Not with sorrow,

But with wonderings of the morrow.

Will he return with a laurel,

Or cause sadness for tomorrow?

Less I mangle the angle,

I had better be silent,

In red row upon stone row.

 

I alone

Desire to hone

My ability to save the lone

Soul buried

In the grave of their phone.

But now who will be

The one to condone

To a sincere, inquisitive tone

To me, even

In red row upon stone row?

 

The weight of it all

Mauls the spirit as

Halls of passed patriots

Toll in solemn request:

“Forget us not”,

Their only reward

An honored bequest of a rest

In red row upon stone row.