By John Thomas Tuft

Cross my heart and hope to try, said the girl

As she pulled the tourniquet tighter on her arm

Picked up the needle and tapped it clear

Believing once again she can escape all harm.

Sitting on the side of the tub she begins to nod off

Her brain feeling like it opens to the bliss

But before all the glad tidings can arrive

She feels a touch on her face and a soft, gentle kiss.

Keeping her eyes closed she leans into this presence

Remembering herself as a child in holiday apparel

Sitting in a living room with loved ones real and warm

Never believing in dreaming, fearing rapture in the last carol.

She bends at the waist, her long hair sweeping the floor

Hope draining from her body, giving up the fight

As she surrenders to the call of this isolation

The room is suddenly filled with great light.

She feels the fingers of a tiny hand slip into hers

An annunciation of grace in her greatest hour of need

Is it finally the coming of all the lost angels?

The words of the last carol singing at last she is freed.