Pobrecito, how you suffered--
a child without a father
even though he was there,
and a mother who had to
work so hard it sent her
home to heaven too soon.
Thrust from warmth
into faraway cold,
you ran with wolves who--
though they seemed to shelter you--
sought to break your gentle spirit
and take all the many gifts you had to give.
Their grasping claws caused you
pain you tried to overcome alone
in a room of glass that reflected
dark haunted eyes and a frozen smile.
It was shattering all around you--
you were falling but felt you were flying.
Even finding what you thought
was love was not enough.
It only made more demands
upon your fragile, hurting soul,
sending it home through a hailstorm,
a poor little thing now at peace.