The Raven

A raven touched her palm,

As she remained so deadly calm,

Carrying a message to beseech,

In the havoc of its screech,

For her to swim beyond,

The lilies of the pond.

To which she said,

“Those dreams are long dead,

”I buried them in the sand,

“With my own bleeding hand.”

So the bird took flight,

Diminishing from sight,

But on her burned a mark,

Claws curled in an ark.

Like the fear that held her still,

It was placid and real.

A reminder of yearning,

Of a dream still burning.

If only she would swim,

On her own whim,

Through the choking weeds,

That bloomed to spread seeds,

Then she could grasp,

The dream she longed to clasp.

*This is a poem written when I was a child. I do not change or edit poems from my childhood out of respect to the young girl who wrote them. I trust that she knew what she was doing and wanted to say.*