No place to hide, none
from the thorns that grapple,
and prick and stab.

From the stares that pierce,
From the whispers that haunt,
From the actions that leaves her
prostate on the cold gravel,
Unable to see, to hear, to know.

Wherefrom he came, she knew not,
Now he was there, then he was not,
But it was enough.

The light that emanated from him,
Casted all but them into shadow and darkness.

Her eyes saw not,
Her ears heard not,
Until she felt a feather- the lightest brush, of a hand.

A soft touch, a gesture of warmth,
His touch, a soothing balm
to the wound that bled into the cold.

One more day, he whispered,
One more, just one.

A small blink, as her ears opened
to his voice,
Reborn to hear what her heart longed for.

The tiniest of candles lit up,
In the moth-ridden shelf of her soul,
Lighting her up from within.

The touch on her shoulder fell away,
But her light remained,
Clearing her eyes,
To finally see the way out.

She wondered when her angel- for he was an angel- would return, if he would at all.

Little did she know, he was always there
Out of sight,
but never out of reach.
If only she could see,
If only she could know.

© Elena