Anatomy of the Delightfully Disturbed

The Yellow Streamer

So delightfully disturbing is this story that I am forced to retell. 

The writer is quite the dreamer, so I am forced to yell. 

He scribes my words every word as I dip my cookie in the creamer, 

so begins this dastardly tale of the yellow steamers.

She was such a little girl, innocent in all its blissful woe. 

I her neighbor on top the hill, the charmer as pleasantries go. 

I might say she was eleven, twelve or maybe thirteen, 

whatever age she was, she had the most beautiful hair I had ever seen. 

Long and blond and bright, and in the sun did it glow. 

Like Rapunzel in her tower of blight, a prince might climb it so. 

I would see her play in the garden beneath my lofty hill. 

She would be filled with much delight, a darling sight, the epitome of thrill. 

Twisting and twirling a tornado of yellow hues,

she would spin and she would grin, wiping away all my mellow blues.

How could something so innocent be cursed to a horrible fate. 

If I had known, if god could have shown, 

then perhaps it would not have been too late. 

Then came her birthday, a day I knew from the many balloons, 

she jumped and skipped below the hill from morning until noon.

The many times she visited, I would offer her a lemon cake, 

so all day I worked, and all day I baked. 

Out the oven I lifted and in a box I gifted. 

I wrapped it in a yellow bow, for the kind little girl down below.

Looking passed my fence I was pleased to witness, 

her parents had gotten her a bike, which this little tyke had mastered in minutes. 

On it's handles sprouted many yellow streamers, fabric to match her hair. 

There could have been no better bike for a girl with so much yellow flair. 

Her birthday dress consisted of yellow daffodils on white. 

A crown of dandelions reached around her head like a fairy or a sprite.

On the bike she soared, up and down the street. 

Delightfully she roared, gliding and lifting her feet. 

I stood there atop the hill just watching her play. 

Her cake in my arms, the final highlight to her perfect day. 

She saw me and waved like a sportive little lemur, 

the wind whipping her hair and the bike's yellow streamers.

She knew I could not climb down, my old bones had trouble climbing slopes, 

so she prepared her bike, she prepared her spokes. 

I watched her climb, an effort worth her time, 

to meet her friend, old man Will, her only neighbor living atop the hill. 

She gave me a big hug and tugged on my sleeve, 

I wished her happy birthday and a pleasant eve. 

In her basket I placed her cake and told her one slice will do the trick, 

to not ruin her supper or it'd make her very sick.

She said her goodbyes, and I should not have let her leave, 

so this story would not exist, and I would not be here to grieve. 

Alas, it is why we are here and I'm sure you want to know why. 

I warn you if you continue reading you will grimace and cry, 

for such a horror next that I regret to see, 

for it would make the strongest man collapse and grow weak in the knees.

She soared down the hill her face stretching to a grin, 

and without a helmet her long hair flapped wildly in the wind. 

Captured in a whirl as she descended the slope, 

her beautiful yellow hair got caught in her bike, 

got caught in her spokes. 

A million strands of hair ripped in unison to her screams, 

her bike tumbled, 

she fumbled 

into the water beside the hill, 

in the rocky stream. 

My cake laid to waste, never to taste 

next to this girl and her broken bike, 

a horrible sight, a horrible waste.

So is her story, the life of this little girl, 

who knew how to dance and make her hair twirl. 

Don't believe me, well trust, go see, 

I am no schemer. 

Its been a week and still the water flows, not with fabric, but a million 

yellow streamers.