Traveler

There was an angel, all in white,
gifted with a second sight.
She walked the world, and leaves of grey
fell to her feet, her silvered prey.

She danced into a lightstorm gold,
and found herself to be untold,
A story waiting, on the brink
Of being told, a missing link.

An old man, whose beard was aged indeed,
Shook his head to see her freed,
“Your freedom, darling, is your bond,”
He said to her in a tone too fond.

She walked the world and found it small,
encompassed in a crystal ball.
And so she lay her down to sleep,
To discover the mysteries of the deep.

In the darkness, coldly calling,
Wintry skies where snow is falling.
Should she join the newly damned
and turn aside from His command?

An angel she, no longer thus,
Sores fester and ooze blistering pus;
scabs that have formed on her soul
for she is no longer whole.

But there is fire, and it bids
her wake to find her own eyelids
open of their own accord-
to see the Lightstorm- and the Lord.

Flames leap up and lick her skin,
amidst an ugly, encompassing din,
but lo! A flower, in her view,
a vestige of a world she once knew.

She leaps for it, brushes her lips
with its softly-scented kiss.
In that moment, she is whole-
God has given her back her soul.