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 (and redolent of today) they may never know. But yet they are       perfect love, knowing nothing of infant rage, juvenile anger, mature fury and aging bile. What irony that a loving God gifted me free-will, but did not read the box! He must have known I could not, yet, exercise it? Free-will is not for life, and only for that one Christmas. For the non-divine, there is a terrible post-partum hiatus. Until I had completed the social parts of my brain - this being long after the rest of it had registered impotent, unlimited spleen, at being helpless and bereft of help - I was to be trapped in a waggling mass, of ridiculous configuration (apparently in His image!) Like a cat with a tin tied to its tail, I dragged my reluctant cognition forward through the Slough of Respond, un-alleviated by alliteration’s distraction, behaving badly to all stimuli. Conceived of my parent’s personal war (during a lull in the bombing) my first awareness: war; I took my cue, and forfeited the first frame. Thereafter: ‘foul’ was my watchword; I was snookered for life. What was my Angels’ take on all this? What did they report back? What did my ‘personal God’ make of my plight? As yet I cannot tell, but the day is fast approaching when, if the afterlife materialises, I shall have all the answers – and still be unable to tell. But fie! Word is, I shall have a BRAND NEW TIN, lacquered in factory freshness. And life will be exactly as hinted-at in the scriptures, though I don’t think there is anything therein about heavenly free-will. How annoying.