When the last of rose has mellowed,
And faded with decay,
And the warmth has fled in silence,
Borne off in cold dismay,
I’ll see your silhouette,
underneath the tawny moon,
Suspended for a moment,
A dream; one gone too soon.

A beautiful deception,
A tree’s laden sorrel bows,
To peer upon the fruit,
To find it black in autumn’s throe,
Give me a wreath of roses,
But tell me which disease,
You’ve ridden them with this time,
Because this game is not for me.

Tell me, in that moment,
When your silhouette was stark,
Would you keep it, would you hoard it,
Or would you lose it in the dark?
Would you drop it like a bottle,
That shatters on the floor?
Or would you come running back,
Begging relentlessly for more.

Let me tell you of a story,
About a girl who fell in love,
Her heart was the broken bottle,
And the dark a friend thereof,
And all that was left when it shattered on the floor,
Was the moon, and a dream,
And a shadow in the door.

Clea is a sophomore in high school. She’s an aspiring poet, artist, horse rider, quantum physicist, and resident annoying sister. She lives in the Netherlands with her other two annoying sisters and is working on her first book.