A Stranger Gone

Should Death come swiftly in the height of green,
fitted with flowers in their transience,
buried in my six feet long before keen,
as faces drift by with a doleful glance;
heed this warning as you would affliction.
Do not allow an epitaph to rule my name,
nor my epithet a stranger's diction.
Young Death is no trice -- someone is to blame.
Look close to the powers, those greedy fiends;
listen clearly to the bell that rung right.
Convience is believing what quick seems.
Coincidence lies below this old plight.
A life now seen as mere tragedy in media,
It would seem those poor of heart thrive on brisk mania!