There’s a problem with being a snowflake,
Which is that, despite being beautiful,
It is crushed underfoot in human’s wake
And left for dead in a winter quite cruel.
And while it can glister like regal gold,
If left in light it will begin to melt.
Few snowflakes get to see their days grow old,
Even if in life they were made heartfelt.
Snowflakes are at the mercy of the wind,
And in the ravishing torrential air
Their valiant edges will find themselves skinned;
And their beaten bodies left weak from wear.
I think I know why people can relate
To the fragile life of a lone snowflake.
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