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You are a cardinal in the winter,
flittering and flying in a dead world.
Yes, crimson in an ocean of pallor,
your purity remains yet undisturbed.
And so you flit and fly, naïve of the
dangers that lie in your ruby splendor.
For you see, little bird, what you perceive,
to be safety is but a pretender.
For you are different and bright’ning, my dove,
yet the blanched will not have acceptance.
They’ll eat you alive, merciless, my love,
your fatal flaw is what makes your brill’iance.
But when winter melts, and the snow is gone,
they’ll see it was you who thrived all along.