Little Rosaline

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
my first poem I've about Little Rosaline watching as her village is slaughtered.

Submitted: January 02, 2013

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Submitted: January 02, 2013

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Little Rosaline
 
In her candle-lit room little Rosaline does rest, 
In white frilly pyjamas and a night cap she is dressed.
She raises the blanket in her subconscious mind,  
To let in a breeze that slides down her spine.
The night is pale and eerie and wet,
But the most treacherous thing has not begun yet.
 
To the noise of a bell little Rosaline does wake,
And now in her gut she feels a strong ache. 
She heaves back her curtain, and watches in pain, 
As her little, frail village, by the natives, is slain.
She picks up her candle, that lay by the bed,
Spilling hot wax to dye her clothes red. 
 
Out her little wooden home little Rosaline does scramble,
To find her sweet neighbours in a sickening shamble. 
She stares down the path in utter despair,
And watches her mother being dragged by her hair. 
The native who caught her has no mercy in mind, 
And his hawk hits her head with a repulsive grind. 
 
Straight out the back gate little Rosaline does pace,
Away from her village that the savages have erased.
  She darts to the trees for there is no place to go, 
So cold, wet and scared, she wonders alone.
Just a candle and nightdress to keep herself warm,
She lies on the woods edge remaining till dawn.
 
Back to the devastation little Rosaline does sneak,
As soon as the sun and it’s light starts to peek.
She hides her nose from the putrid stench,
And grieves for her parents who lie cold in a trench.
She leans on her father and mutters a prayer,
And finds herself waking from her deceitful nightmare.
 
In a boiling hot sweat little Rosaline does wake,
And now in her gut she feels a strong ache. 
She heaves back her curtain, and watches in pain, 
As her little, frail village, by the natives, is slain.


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