Once upon a time lived a girl, 
A beautiful soul with talent.
One felt she was a perfect pearl,
That writing was her true outlet.

She studied artists she could find
In the finest books in the land.
She dreamed of expressing her mind
With the truest thoughts at hand.

After living a life of pain 
She found solace in her own soul.
With nothing to lose, all to gain,
She offered her heart with no goal.

She spun the truth like a weaver,
Expressed the world as she saw fit.
Writing honor in a fever 
Was her life as she now lived it.

She offered up for scrutiny
The scribbles of a true writer.
Received with a real amity
Her best was that of a fighter.

One after the other they came,
Each new piece was blessed by her touch,
And brought her a portion of fame
That no person thought was too much.

As often happens, it would seem,
She stopped writing her poetry.
Who could say what stifled her dream,
Was her mind filled with sophistry?

It is not my portion to bare
How I miss her voice and her song,
But loss of beauty is our share.
Such a waste of talent is wrong.

Her work had been honest and real
And nothing can replace her art,
But regrets for the loss we feel
Cannot help but break this one's heart.