A poem of the tragic life of an innocent girl.
There used to be a fair maiden by the name of Rosette,
Had a skin of a doll, and soft locks of brunette,
Had a kind heart, full of life and joyous breath,
A lovable girl she was, so gentle and never fret.

But there was one problem, people said she was a freak of nature,
Behind those lovely eyes are demons nothing could endure,
That she practiced witchcraft, hence making diseases of no cure,
But oh, how wrong they were for her soul was so pure.

Though yes, in a dream, a man said a plague was to come,
Either a few would survive or there would totally be none,
Rosette, having a kind soul, told the news to everyone,
Yet no one believed her, saying it's impossible to man.

Soon did the plague come and indeed, death came to most,
Rosette could only cry and feel sorry to the lost,
Mourns, tears, and sorrows filled the town's every lot,
Now those of selfish minds accused Rosette as a fraud.

"She made the plague herself," all folks engraved in their heads,
"That's why she knew it would come," many of them added,
Hoping that killing her would end the plague's dread,
They searched all over town for the girl with a copper head.

Tied and beaten, she was dragged to the center of town,
Full of wounds and scratches, and dressed with a bloody gown,
People chanted curses as on the pole she was bound,
And flames slowly consumed her as they circled her, round and round.

Cheers were heard as death finally stole her away,
But the plague continued and death pursued all creatures, all night and day,
The town fell silent as all life was gone and bodies breathlessly lay,
But poor young Rosette, never in peace, her soul was kept astray.
Published: 2/19/2013
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