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Soul Of The Dart

Her glowing, golden hair eventually fell,
As tardily her tender voice became a broken bell.
Made to ring, but can't make a sound,
The sweet, soft voice was nowhere to be found.
Stuttering and mumbling, she tried her best,
Despite the pain, she refuses to rest.
Her palms were as cold as winter snow,
Whilst her flaccid body strolled gentle and slow.
Twinkling beautifully, her eyes stayed bright,
As they delicately closed and whispered goodnight.
It took its aim and shattered a heart,
She was the board and cancer was the dart.

by Megan Bill (13)
Sunbury Manor School, Middlesex

Competition - War Of Words

Copyright remains with the author.