Untitled
By Lianna, age 12

Her feet are tired, her legs are sore
But she knows she must run more
Her baby's clutched up in her arms
Her heart's going fast, her sweaty palms
Are soothing to the baby's bawling head
But that's not what she panics about. Instead
She's worrying about how
She'd feel if her baby was gone. For now
The baby's safe, the baby bawls
She overbalances, stumbles and falls
She gets up and runs, she's dreading those wild
Great beasts, those beasts that want the child.

Souls of the Dead
By Lianna, age 12

They're seldom alone.
They were once treasured possessions,
Pleasurable things
Enjoying usage sessions
Though they've moved on
Their original owners have gone,
These antiques bear many questions

That old rocking chair
Is not quite deserted as looks
The small flair woman
Still sits there to read all her books
Yellow with age
Absorbing in page after page
Like sponges to bubbling brooks

This pipe still hosts
Tobacco for that pale old man
When no one's around
He smokes it as often he can
The hair comb there
Still runs through this young lady's hair
As it did all her life-span.

They're never alone
Accompanied instead
Not dying and then
Leaving all possessions. The dread!
Evening by day
Aside their belongings they stay
The souls of the dead