The Saint

She walks alone through the ashes of Dighton, With a hoodie of green and the silence on. They call her The Saint, but she bears no crown— Just a fire in her eyes when the dark comes ‘round. Whispers chase her through the trees, But she moves like truth on a midnight breeze. Oh, The Saint won’t fall, The Saint won’t flee, Guarding the green like destiny. The dark people want what they can't know— That hoodie holds more than a mortal glow. It's the thread of her past, her heart’s own song— And she'll wear it proud, she'll wear it strong. They came from the fog with hunger and lies, With shadows stitched into suits and ties. “Give us the green,” they hissed with glee, “But nothing that pure comes easily.” She smiled soft, then drew a line, And said, “This soul ain’t yours to mine.” Oh, The Saint won’t kneel, The Saint won’t break, For love’s not something they can take. The hoodie’s worn but fierce with flame, And stitched inside is her mother’s name. They want her light, they want her grace But she fights like thunder, calm in face. In every thread there’s a tale she’s told, Of nights gone cold and dreams grown bold. It’s not just cloth, it’s not just style— It’s every tear she’s walked with mile by mile. So here she stands on sacred ground, While the wind around her makes no sound. They reach, they crawl, but they can’t breach The faith she guards just out of reach. And when they vanish into black, She pulls her hood and doesn’t look back. Oh, The Saint walks on, with stars above, Wearing green like armor, stitched with love. Let the dark people come and try— But they’ll never own what they can’t buy. She’s the keeper of her soul and skin— And The Saint still stands, and The Saint will win