The grass is wearing my lipstick
  and there's frost on my face.
     I see no trace
         of the bird that took my shoe.      
     The trees are looming over,
               taking fun of my fallen state.            
      Is there nothing better for them to do?  
        My cheeks are redder than a    
   snowstorm,
     the bugs are in my hair.
         The bird has taken my other shoe,
    They're ******* on the fairy lights.
    Do they truly not care?
    Because I fall they do not fight
     their own fights.
           A rabbit grew wings and gave me back    
      my shoes.
The grass returned my lipstick and the frost 
      cooled down my face.
       Tomorrow I may fall again,
         But of the trees,
         there will be no trace.