As a trauma rips through Marysville Washington, I am reminded of a piece I wrote when I too was a teenager.

As the smoke rises from the ashes,
The time quickly passes.

For when the clock starts ticking,
The grave diggers begin digging.

Your life silently slips away,
And we plant flowers at your grave.

Loved ones wonder why,
It had to be you that would die.

Your enemies begin to speak,
Of conquering others who are weak.

And you most of all,
Heeds the nameless voice that calls.

Telling you of a lost bliss,
Where at last you may find peacefulness.

Penned under the name Misty Chaplin (now Misty Taylor) ©1995