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.