A Living Saint

The soul of a crystal stream, alive in heart a skyfall. And
Her tears, a millpond of comfort. And porcelain prayers,
Drenched in penance. Thus upon a midnight moon,
Sprinkles of despair. But the sun depth the soul, a radiant
Glow. And she dares to seal such wounds, bleeding mercy.
Her eyes emit emotion, as subtle as dreams: her sanctum
The souls of purgatory. She clutches, knotted in grief—her 
Soul, a flaming matrix. The heart, a quilted maze: the psyche,
A quilted web. And she burns to comfort sorrow, a puddle
Of tears. Alike to saints, ascending in spirit—an article of
Faith. And such vision, akin to fiction. It streams through
Faith, a particle of light. Its essence, a touch of darkness. Its
Ache, a touch of madness. And she listens, the silent voice,
Rapt in ecstasy, daring to rupture Spirit.