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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2083638
by Coal
Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2083638
Something I did a few years back for a college assignemnt.
There once was a child, quiet and mild, who loved to play in the prairie.
She would hop with the rabbits, teach the squirrels bad habits, and this made her merry.
She was a tender child, sweet and mild who was only ever pleasant.
Her life was one of ease, sniffling in the breeze, until she met the talking pheasant.
The pheasant taught her much, discussions by the hutch, only to complicate life.
She knew not of fear, had never shed a tear, but was now learned in the meaning of strife.
The child was taught of money, a concept before thought funny, but this no longer.
She learned of mortality, and then of morality. This was though to make her stronger.
The child learned quickly, but soon fell sickly, and had resigned to never play again.
The pheasant came to watch, recluse from the klatsch, but clinging like a stain.
When the family had gone, the pheasant flew to the lawn, and pecked a dandelion free.
It flew back to her side, no longer needing to hide, "I pecked this piece of gold for thee."
The child's face soon shone, like the joy once known, and decided to get out of bed.
The pheasant bid her rest, "Too weak to leave the nest." yet she ran the prairie instead.
There once was a child, sickly and mild, who now knew what it meant to be alive.
Before she was whimsical, never one to be social, in this she learned to thrive.
Yet now she learned anew that this was never true, for she had only learned to cope.
The pheasant had taught her more, sitting on the floor; the child felt that she was a dope.
The pheasant asked a question, knowing the prairie, her bastion, would soon fade away.
"After I am to die, and my time is gone by, would in this place you decide to stay?"
"Yes!" declared the child, bit her lip and smiled, for she knew that this was a lie.
"Stupid, stupid girl, your mind such a whirl, have you not learned yet to cry?"
The child distraught, recalling all she had been taught, missed the most important part.
Her time would come to go, and she would then know to keep these lessons in her heart.
She could look to them again, when life became a strain, and cry, cry, cry.
There once was a child, now older and mild, whose eyes were never dry.
The pheasant flew away, to prepare for the day, when the child's scarf became a shroud.
The child older learned quickly, but soon fell sickly, yet this time she was proud.
She called to the pheasant, whom she felt was pleasant, to bid her good night.
The pheasant flew by, seeing the girl cry, and he himself wept at the sight.
My child, so precious and mild, noble I even dare to say.
Wipe your eyes now, here is my vow, there will be no more tears this day.
© Copyright 2016 Coal (mrscuffy at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2083638