Her thoughts stand fresh upon the page,
her hand is large... the letters, round;
the weaving of her hopes, and dreams, as she sails through her sweet springtime.
The clear, bright vision of the young, as yet, un-marred.... as yet, unbound
by frown that fickle fate may gift...
by sadness, that may spoil her rhyme.

And so, she sails upon the dream of Love she knows, is hers to find;
broken hearts and shattered dreams for now...
lie cloaked, and far away.
Her song of Love... a Symphony, that shines so brightly in her mind;
and not a cloud across her skies, so blue;
where her thoughts dance, and play.

Yet, sometimes, she may timidly, and swiftly peek into that place
as yet unknown...
the Labyrinth of sadness... where we wander, lost,
and quite alone,
when Love lies bleeding...
she has not yet, seen that face;
Her poem... sad; no, not for her;
and crumpled, in the bin is tossed.

Young Poetess, hold firm your dream;
be true to what your heart would say,
for there are many in this world,
would try to snatch your dream away.