Gone. By: emily boltz

The girl is young and lively, says the stuffed toys

And purple butterflies scattered throughout her room.

She's adventurous too, and loves a dangerous thrill,

Says the sleek yellow dirt bike on the leaf-littered lawn.

But not a lover of the cozy indoors,

Tells her worn running shoes and skateboard

Leaning on the sturdy brick wall of the confined house.

She was expressive and talented,

Whispers the multiple instruments sprawled

On the white rug in her seldom-tidy room.

The stereo and record player on her dresser

Croons that music is her soothing escape;

And the beautiful angel on her shelf

Uncovers that she believes in the inevitably unknown…

But her feelings go much deeper.

Feelings that lie hidden within her drawings

Can go deeper than the endless Pacific,

Or deeper than the lowest note on her old Hammond.

Not many understands her,

Reveals the used blades lain on her bedside table;

But, no one understand can when she's gone.

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