Margaret, Age 12, Barrie, ON

It wrenches at our hearts, once pristine, without a care.
It flickers in the tangled wrath of fire,
Darling, it’s a thing called despair…
Her face was scarred with it, it loomed in deep wrinkles and grooves,
The aftermath of joy,
Happiness she promises to never again lose.
The happiness that knotted through the small, ebbing ripples in a bubbling stream,
Water that belonged
In a faraway, consoling dream.
It flirted in a billowy gust of a simple spring breeze,
With her once golden, now silvery hair
Tinted from the obtrusive stain of apparent despair.

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