She was the kind of sad that took over a life time,
with a sweet disposition, it was impossible to know
how eternally lonely her impenetrable heart really was.
A magnet to lost souls, they could see what she could not:
wings of bravery given to her by angels that saw
the devastating tragedies of her former life.
Pure and patient, she was a curious observer of pain
acknowledged injustice, feeling it, as if it was her own.
Canonized by the misfits, the outcasts, the artists –
She only exists to those that really need her,
the ones so alone they climb to the bottom of the rock
and wait and pray for someone, anyone, only for those people
does she exist. Not in the physical sense but in their psyche
and only when they need her most. She strokes the hair
of the down trodden, giving hope to the outcasts –
like a saint.