Proof That I Was a Morbid Child
Yeah, so, did I ever mention that I was a weird child? Very, very morbid. I read “Wuthering Heights” half a dozen times and my favorite poets were Dickinson and Poe. I loved creepy stories and abandoned houses and… graveyards. I will now allow you to read this poem I penned in sixth or seventh grade. I think I whipped it out in an hour or so for a school assignment, and it kind of disturbed my mom. Firstly because I could write that fast and secondly because I could write that…morbid-ly. Oh, well. We are who we are, right? And if who I am is a girl who writes about dead people and sad trees, who has a right to blame me? 😉
An Old Tree in the Graveyard
An old tree in the graveyard,
Beside the country parish.
The body of beauty forever marred,
The days of pleasure vanished.
No life of silence my childhood knew,
But verve and joy and song.
But now the years of joy are thru,
The youthful beauty gone.
The vivid bark has withered fast,
The bones begun to crack.
My body moans with each day past
My rich skin turns to black.
The once smooth wood is chipped and worn,
The stately branches bent.
My long strong arms now hang forlorn,
The years of vigor spent.
I watched the flowers of my youth
Drift off in the air.
What once held warmth is now removed,
My arms forever bare.
The children of the ancient church
Beside my lonely home.
Who used to play beneath the birch,
Can now no longer roam.
Young faces that I once beheld,
The noble, wise, and brave;
Hearts full of life—but now lay stilled,
Silenced beneath the grave.
The beauty from when my buds first woke,
Has vanished throughout the years.
I stand now, silent, an ancient oak,
Amidst the graveyard’s tears.
Okay, I just re-read the poem and now I can see why my mom was so freaked out… I mean, why in the world would a twelve year old even be thinking about graveyards? *shudder*