So pure yet immature
Wrong time when premature
Struggling for oxygen that isn’t there
For the eye it’s an emotional affair
Falls down stumbles round
Lifts up and hits the ground
Wheezes little breezes
Conjures up little sneezes
Throws out a lame gentle moan
Which evolves ever slowly into a groan
Nestled in bed made of print
Underneath the brambles and the flint
Cold wraps around this precious soul
Missing warmth like fires burnt with coal
Hands raise up the abandoned vessel
Into a thick blanket the orphan can know nestle