Beaten. Bones. Cold. Cut. Deprived. Depressed.

I felt all the pain in my minuscule life.

Who ever said everyone has a purpose was surely wrong, for what purpose did a poor stray dog like me have?

I cried at the sight of my broken body in comparison to the bright, bold, golden dogs who walked with their owners.

What was it like being loved? Cared for?

Again my stomach growls and I drag my boney, frail body to the rotten trash.

I find nothing of value and instead walk to the park and lie under the willow tree.

The warm sun heats my chilled bones.

I close my eyes and breathe in the flower-scent air.

Sleep grips me and I waver into a bright light.

I wake up not under the willow tree, but in a golden sky where love resides.