Fifty Years Later Poem by Ima Ryma

November twenty second came
In the year nineteen sixty three,
The nation would not be the same,
Forever scarred in history.
He was the U.S. President,
Young and handsome and full of life,
Witty and wise, with good intent,
Cute small children, beautiful wife.
And then in seconds, he was gone.
The world was darker it did seem.
Would all his hopes and dreams live on?
We the people - less hope, less dream.

That day that J.F.K. was shot.
Fifty years older - wiser not.