This IS a poem. Just add line-breaks.

The sweet-wrappers of a bitter childhood still blow after me, with the tinkling sound of Angel wings; not trying to catch up, bringing tidings of great joy, but curious to see what my enduring negativity will yet do to me. Rage puzzles Angels; born, angelic and loved - to Angel mothers (did you not know?) they need no father, save He that, by definition...

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