Though stranded to a range of our own, and never to know the shape of a tree grown. The life that found and took us in, is simply angelic.
The most greed to embrace our kind, is innocent at its seed of mind. More warmth, food, get closer.
Until a cherished egg of life crumbles, and from within a small one stumbles. The truest meaning of life is living.
And as our hearts bond in pairs, and through the heat that we share we find the storm to be a little more than ice and wind.
Though we cannot fly, and our wings have never found the sky. They are not wasted.
For unlike those that sink into despair. The weak who lose the ambition to care. Our wings have sought a new canvas to trace their lines.
And though darkness find us stationary, huddling for mere warmth to survive. The sun so often reflects upon the ripples of the sea, and illuminates the wings that have been given to us .