The moon shines on the lake like a dime;
trees move gently
as the wind whispers its secret.
Yellow and red flash
as a gentle being emerges from the path.
Brown tangled mess flows from the head,
the face dirty from
mud, hate and madness, but
her eyes show kindness and affection,
the color of the silver moon.

Stepping into the lake
ripples ran wild
making the moon shimmer on the black water.
Moving to the moon, she stares up,
tears falling, burning her cheeks.
‘It is time,’ she whispers softly.
Sparks fly as the black engulfs her,
the water decreases,
she emerges, hanging her head, sulking.
The moon sparkles on her white body.
There isnt’ a woman on the lake,
there is an embellished swan
sitting on the reflection of,
the silver moon.

This poem was written/submitted by Brooke Smith.