Oh the bent and twisted thing a soul becomes
that is not filled by heaven’s light
nor sacred darkness seeks.
It wraps itself about itself—consumes itself—
it leaves itself—perverts itself—
and ends without itself.
O weak and trembling damned soul,
look on yourself and see,
but turn to light—
seek Him in the dark—
a saint you may then be.
Poem: Meditation on the Soul
Tale Told 