Four Cursedly Short Years Poem by Robert L. Bixler III

Four cursedly short years,
Some could pray for more.
Years that saw the conquering of fears,
And the acquiescence of majestic lore.

From waddling freshmen un-assured
Of ourselves and the ways of the heart
To that of the sure-footed, lack-loved cured,
Future leaders of the world ready to start,

Such transformations have been found
In our self-reflected mirror image.
Yet, all the while we are still bound
For the same youthful visage

That was created by childhood dreams.
Eager we step forward class of two-thousand n’ four
Ready to grab life by its very seams
And understand our soul is stronger than it seems.