To be a child, a child, when love was free,
When the trees stood tall, and all things could speak.

A child, bounding at ease, through Autumn’s,
Chilling,
And
Fallen debris.

In a land, which is now a dream, a little girl plays make believe
Doing what for centuries has been done before,
She sings a song, a callow tune.

Forever young it may seem, but look out; time comes more hurriedly than once perceived.

She happens upon a yellow rose, its alluring bloom,
She brings up close

But not before she feels a prick, blood drips,
She instantly feels sick

Impeccable,
Youthful,
Innocence, no longer,
As she discovers the painful beauty that is a flower

A single tear escapes her eye, a shrill yelp her throat,
Which is sure to denote, sending a chilling tingle down my spine,
As the wind blows

She then resumes her callow tune, because after all,
She is but a youth

But never again will she forget that vexing day,
When she stood small, and all things could speak