Pale Little Lark

Oh pale little lark,
Where is your heart?
Has it been washed away,
On the ship of today?
Tiny, sweet mother
Growing sick of her brother.
Tears run down the face,
Use the chair as a brace.
Icy, cold winds blast,
Things moving half fast.
Frigid is the soul,
Just as the stories being told.
Trees now lose their bark.
The house was already empty 
Right from the start.
 
This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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