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Little Girl Lost
- Little Girl Lost -
A poem about the supernatural
In night’s slumbering symmetry, the moonbeams swift fell,
Bathing the ancient crossroads in pale, bluish illumination.
The earth was soaked from the rain, and had a damp smell,
A scent that confused the senses: with its’ fetid incantation.
Amidst some old foundation from a house abandoned long,
In woodlands dark and mysterious, in old haunted country…
An owl was perched upon crumbling stones, singing a song,
Cooing of the night that was its’ home, hooting comfortably.
The ruined dwelling could not speak of a fate that unfolded,
Whereby it came to be no more: save as an abode for ghosts.
Their lonely vigil to walk the night, in darkness so enfolded,
Such spirits linger long, and lose all memory of bodily hosts.
The air itself became their abode, things borne on chill winds,
Whose breathing life was ended, though they continue ever!
Only the wise owl recalls of their lives, and their secret sins,
An animal that cannot speak, and so the eternal curse: sever.
Once a family knew the joys of life within the ruined house,
But each died of grief after the tragedy by a storm brought…
Leaving a place of happiness now mirthless as a gray mouse,
Whilst at least one spirit remains there, lost in living thought.
This was a domain of spirits, a crossroads of death, and life…
Where one may wander, for a time; and come to remember.
I wandered there myself attempting to flee decades of strife,
In the month of October, only two months before December!
Outside the dwelling, wolves let cry their howls unto the air,
Whilst the crickets chirped merrily, macabre tunes to play…
For there was darkness on that place not ever bright, nor fair,
And none living there were to speak of it, as live still today.
Quiet divinities of those woods, old goddesses of the green,
Themselves have gone mute with long silence of the years…
And no longer venture forth amongst man to more be seen,
Than as a dream, and so the old place weeps unheard tears.
All that remains is a small tower, in which lives an old soul!
Black curtains over the windows block out even the moon…
And therein lies a secret held, over which none can control.
She walks in a lonely beauty, eternally young in the gloom!
Stuffed animals decorate her lonely bed, amidst red covers,
Of: sewn silk, where the girl would oft lie in a silent repose.
Not dead, but no longer living and having known no lovers,
The child of the night awaits her visitor as cold wind blows.
So like another evening long ago, which she cannot recall…
She rather simply passes through her familiar daily routines.
She knows someone is coming for the owl cries on the wall,
And so she combs her hair, by the light of pale moonbeams.
Her mother is now coming, but she wears a stranger’s flesh,
And so her daughter tries to prepare all things as they were.
The better to make her mother remember, to recall afresh,
Old maternal instincts, which had all meant so much to her!
I came to her dwelling as an exile from the world I had left,
When in that season I thought to forget my mounting woes.
And so did I befriend that ageless soul, she who was bereft,
Of any thoughts of adulthood, lost in her childhood’s throes.
She had no mother, so I was like one to her for a brief span!
I cared for her, living her mother’s role as if I had long ago.
Did I live here once; did I die here once, in this savage land…
Was this my daughter, bringing me back to a place of woe?
We lay upon that scarlet bed, telling stories to one another…
Amidst the candlelight’s dim glow, our shadows monstrous.
Whilst outside, the owl did cry out as it lost a pale feather…
To the coming storm: of which we had been truly oblivious.
We awaited its’ fury, our arms wrapped in warmth shared…
Both of us eternal beings long used to the chills of the night,
Breathing as one, pulses racing whilst we felt utterly scared.
I: like a child myself lost in the reality and memory of fright!
But for my ageless angel I betrayed no sign of my dismay…
I sang a song that kept her content, lulling her into slumbers.
And soon the storm had passed as the dawn brought the day!
I kissed her forehead and she smiled, one who remembers…
The kindness I showed her, and all the love a heart can give.
But as I stepped into the morning glow, I pondered longest,
On why a child would be here alone, and so continue to live.
Undying and immortal as she was, a child is never strongest!
I stood outside the tower, waiting upon the crossroads to go,
Unable to decide which way, when I heard the owl cry out…
As if I should not leave just yet, and I turned around just so,
That I might return unto the tower, to banish my own doubt.
I looked, and the room that had been kept in splendid order,
Now seemed long abandoned, dark curtains hung in tatters…
Dust covering stuffed animals and no sign of a child boarder.
I knew not where she had gone, and that was what matters…
For in that thought I rushed outside and called out so loudly,
Therein lay an old graveyard, where the owl landed proudly,
Upon the grave of a young girl, her epitaph making sense…
Telling how she died in a storm, when a limb had struck her.
I looked, to see a branch through one of the tower windows,
And the night I had spent with the little ghost was like a blur.
It passed into memory, like the mists before bright rainbows!
Her name was too faded to read, upon her gray tombstone…
But I needed it not, to remember her kind and friendly laugh.
As I set out down the crossroads, a being of flesh and bone…
I wept for that little nameless girl, long lost to nature’s wrath.
My daughter, for whom I once grieved until I died from grief!
I recalled what I had named her; it was Lily and I now knew,
The tragedy, as made our life together to be cut all too brief.
And in that knowing, I could move on to the next life so true!
Ut est non mortuus, quod est validus ut eternus recubo...
Quod per insolitus aeons vel nex est validus morior.
A poem about the supernatural
In night’s slumbering symmetry, the moonbeams swift fell,
Bathing the ancient crossroads in pale, bluish illumination.
The earth was soaked from the rain, and had a damp smell,
A scent that confused the senses: with its’ fetid incantation.
Amidst some old foundation from a house abandoned long,
In woodlands dark and mysterious, in old haunted country…
An owl was perched upon crumbling stones, singing a song,
Cooing of the night that was its’ home, hooting comfortably.
The ruined dwelling could not speak of a fate that unfolded,
Whereby it came to be no more: save as an abode for ghosts.
Their lonely vigil to walk the night, in darkness so enfolded,
Such spirits linger long, and lose all memory of bodily hosts.
The air itself became their abode, things borne on chill winds,
Whose breathing life was ended, though they continue ever!
Only the wise owl recalls of their lives, and their secret sins,
An animal that cannot speak, and so the eternal curse: sever.
Once a family knew the joys of life within the ruined house,
But each died of grief after the tragedy by a storm brought…
Leaving a place of happiness now mirthless as a gray mouse,
Whilst at least one spirit remains there, lost in living thought.
This was a domain of spirits, a crossroads of death, and life…
Where one may wander, for a time; and come to remember.
I wandered there myself attempting to flee decades of strife,
In the month of October, only two months before December!
Outside the dwelling, wolves let cry their howls unto the air,
Whilst the crickets chirped merrily, macabre tunes to play…
For there was darkness on that place not ever bright, nor fair,
And none living there were to speak of it, as live still today.
Quiet divinities of those woods, old goddesses of the green,
Themselves have gone mute with long silence of the years…
And no longer venture forth amongst man to more be seen,
Than as a dream, and so the old place weeps unheard tears.
All that remains is a small tower, in which lives an old soul!
Black curtains over the windows block out even the moon…
And therein lies a secret held, over which none can control.
She walks in a lonely beauty, eternally young in the gloom!
Stuffed animals decorate her lonely bed, amidst red covers,
Of: sewn silk, where the girl would oft lie in a silent repose.
Not dead, but no longer living and having known no lovers,
The child of the night awaits her visitor as cold wind blows.
So like another evening long ago, which she cannot recall…
She rather simply passes through her familiar daily routines.
She knows someone is coming for the owl cries on the wall,
And so she combs her hair, by the light of pale moonbeams.
Her mother is now coming, but she wears a stranger’s flesh,
And so her daughter tries to prepare all things as they were.
The better to make her mother remember, to recall afresh,
Old maternal instincts, which had all meant so much to her!
I came to her dwelling as an exile from the world I had left,
When in that season I thought to forget my mounting woes.
And so did I befriend that ageless soul, she who was bereft,
Of any thoughts of adulthood, lost in her childhood’s throes.
She had no mother, so I was like one to her for a brief span!
I cared for her, living her mother’s role as if I had long ago.
Did I live here once; did I die here once, in this savage land…
Was this my daughter, bringing me back to a place of woe?
We lay upon that scarlet bed, telling stories to one another…
Amidst the candlelight’s dim glow, our shadows monstrous.
Whilst outside, the owl did cry out as it lost a pale feather…
To the coming storm: of which we had been truly oblivious.
We awaited its’ fury, our arms wrapped in warmth shared…
Both of us eternal beings long used to the chills of the night,
Breathing as one, pulses racing whilst we felt utterly scared.
I: like a child myself lost in the reality and memory of fright!
But for my ageless angel I betrayed no sign of my dismay…
I sang a song that kept her content, lulling her into slumbers.
And soon the storm had passed as the dawn brought the day!
I kissed her forehead and she smiled, one who remembers…
The kindness I showed her, and all the love a heart can give.
But as I stepped into the morning glow, I pondered longest,
On why a child would be here alone, and so continue to live.
Undying and immortal as she was, a child is never strongest!
I stood outside the tower, waiting upon the crossroads to go,
Unable to decide which way, when I heard the owl cry out…
As if I should not leave just yet, and I turned around just so,
That I might return unto the tower, to banish my own doubt.
I looked, and the room that had been kept in splendid order,
Now seemed long abandoned, dark curtains hung in tatters…
Dust covering stuffed animals and no sign of a child boarder.
I knew not where she had gone, and that was what matters…
For in that thought I rushed outside and called out so loudly,
Therein lay an old graveyard, where the owl landed proudly,
Upon the grave of a young girl, her epitaph making sense…
Telling how she died in a storm, when a limb had struck her.
I looked, to see a branch through one of the tower windows,
And the night I had spent with the little ghost was like a blur.
It passed into memory, like the mists before bright rainbows!
Her name was too faded to read, upon her gray tombstone…
But I needed it not, to remember her kind and friendly laugh.
As I set out down the crossroads, a being of flesh and bone…
I wept for that little nameless girl, long lost to nature’s wrath.
My daughter, for whom I once grieved until I died from grief!
I recalled what I had named her; it was Lily and I now knew,
The tragedy, as made our life together to be cut all too brief.
And in that knowing, I could move on to the next life so true!
Ut est non mortuus, quod est validus ut eternus recubo...
Quod per insolitus aeons vel nex est validus morior.
Published 23rd Oct 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Anonymous
23rd Oct 2012 9:39am
What a beautiful and haunted tale.
How tormented this gentle soul must have been.
There is a great sorrow coming from these words and Lily is so much alive that I can almost see her fragile posture and long curled hair.
The story is as vivid as a film on screen.
Thank you for this tale dear friend!
LuMe¤
How tormented this gentle soul must have been.
There is a great sorrow coming from these words and Lily is so much alive that I can almost see her fragile posture and long curled hair.
The story is as vivid as a film on screen.
Thank you for this tale dear friend!
LuMe¤
24th Oct 2012 4:56am
I'm totally happy you enjoyed it, Rianne! I wrote a previous draft of this poem many years ago and I had posted it on Starlite Cafe... but I never felt it was complete. So the other night I decided to go back, finish it, and post it here. So here it is! I must say, it is one of my best supernatural poems, and has a lot of depth to it.
Lily is based on a memory of mine, a memory of someone very much like her... a daughter of mine in another life, one I lost tragically. I see her sometimes in my dreams, and I know she is fully at peace beyond... happy just knowing that I remember her. I think she'd be thrilled that I immortalized her in poetry! :D Lol. Anyhooo, it was my pleasure to share this story here on DUP!
Thanks for taking the time to comment, my friend.
Lily is based on a memory of mine, a memory of someone very much like her... a daughter of mine in another life, one I lost tragically. I see her sometimes in my dreams, and I know she is fully at peace beyond... happy just knowing that I remember her. I think she'd be thrilled that I immortalized her in poetry! :D Lol. Anyhooo, it was my pleasure to share this story here on DUP!
Thanks for taking the time to comment, my friend.
