Broken repetition.

Ah, well... I've been told that if you wish to become good at something you either do or observe. Preferably both. Poems, rhymes and whatnot of suchlike nature isn't something I'm grasping securely enough - or so I believe. This is my first attempt at writing a poem, hopefully not the last, be honest if commenting on its quality, or lack thereof.

Broken repetition.

This has been told, years ago
that the singular river, to it we'll all return,
carried on its back a hamper, containing living gold.
Emblazoned sides - trio of red apples.
And as such her name was told: Applejack.
The one whom makes trees sing and bestow

Livable, strong and honest. She toiled, verily, each day.
On her forhead reflecting pearls hung,
ache and hunger - easily appeased.
Days, when they die are a painful sight
or so she thought, then she saw the night.
A stirring within, two winking stars, acquainted her with loss.

Unforseen or seen, she stayed were she ever been.
Clouds of dreams trailed far away, far from setting on her face,
reminiscent only to echoes.
Questions evaded, in a hideaway contigence remained.
Had she ever dreamed of anything but this stay?
Beneath apple trees dwelled her fate - and a chain.

Jests slanted her inner sea of green hills - dreams you never had -
Billowing by felt wind and prickly rain.
Sadly each day, She toiled for a fog to be embraced.
Batterings, the song of trees kicked at dawn,
Decision felt - I do dream - white sails swelled,
leaving, carried on the singular river's foaming crests.