It sat isolated. An orphan scans the room looking
for an inviting family to join. Surrounded by cold hearts,
the orphan cries tears that turn to frozen flurries.
Flurries grow to snow. The chide spirits of the dark souls
crave the tears of snow.They harshly play with and sculpt the
cluster of flurries. An icy, winter feeling numbs the lonely.
There is no more snow left to cry. On the ground an unknown,
white angel calls for the untouchable, and cradles it
like a mother.A summer warmth boils rugged skin. Numbness
melts away like and icicle being hit by sun rays.
The fostered human feels. Only few clusters of snow remain
on the ground.More humane angels gather around to heat
the temperate spirit.The foster's scorching skin turns sun burned.
It belongs.A family has been born. Merry time flies by like buzzing
bees. Sun screen is applied. Skin looses its crimson pigments.
The family begins to change and separate. Angels begin to fall.
The dark souls torment their child like a large swarm
of stinging bees.The child is repeatedly stung and feed on like a
flower's nectar.The flower becomes empty. The pain and stinging
is unbearable.The child is all alone again, an orphan.
The orphan roams lonely, blanch paths.
Colors spring from trees and flowers.
As the end of the path nears an angel appears.
The angle welcomes the orphan with open arms.The orphan
is adopted, reborn.The wounds have healed and the pain has stopped,
but the bees' stingers remain in pockets of skin.
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