A naive thing once longed for heat and warmth, And so, miles and miles it crossed, venturing forth. being befuddled by every rose's thorn, the naive thing kept marching on. Once its steps mounted up to a myriad, Once its lumber could quiver from the wind, Once it realize that by wanting it sinned, Will something grow inside its hollow shell, or will the old echoes keep on repeating as what remind? will it still yearn for the heat? Knowing the consuming flames it left behind?

A lost dinosaur.