kahlil
07-11-2004, 08:41 PM
She smiles.
Trapping souls in the droplets she collects.
Finding, choosing, saving, keeping
Red, brown, beige, silver and black
The rosaries bring the memories back
The strings bind loyal as confidantes
Yet still she hasn’t managed to
Decide on what she wants
She prays dutifully,
Believing,
It takes time.
She lines her suitors carefully,
Stringing them along,
One after the other,
They never struggle against her fingers,
They always trust her polished touch,
They have found the idyllic home,
They’ve dream of sharing with her so much.
Except their eyes are fixed at an angle,
Only she controls by prayer,
They look inside of her,
And discover nothing’s there.
Her hands dispense the comfort,
The beads solicit like food,
But still for her they are never any good.
She retreats to the window,
Where she counts imperfections like rain,
Wishing so often
That she wouldn’t have to explain.
“I keep them for prayer”
She replies,
To the casual visitor,
Rapt by the snakes,
Strewn across her soil.
The flat stare of death grips them,
Like a common touch,
They cannot resist.
She wraps her rosaries around her wrists,
Convinced the past is sealed like a burial crust,
Against decades of fevers and passions,
She has learned to never trust.
Imagining the valor,
Of accepting a man,
Like the god she fears and loves,
And depends upon
Without really ever knowing.
Trapping souls in the droplets she collects.
Finding, choosing, saving, keeping
Red, brown, beige, silver and black
The rosaries bring the memories back
The strings bind loyal as confidantes
Yet still she hasn’t managed to
Decide on what she wants
She prays dutifully,
Believing,
It takes time.
She lines her suitors carefully,
Stringing them along,
One after the other,
They never struggle against her fingers,
They always trust her polished touch,
They have found the idyllic home,
They’ve dream of sharing with her so much.
Except their eyes are fixed at an angle,
Only she controls by prayer,
They look inside of her,
And discover nothing’s there.
Her hands dispense the comfort,
The beads solicit like food,
But still for her they are never any good.
She retreats to the window,
Where she counts imperfections like rain,
Wishing so often
That she wouldn’t have to explain.
“I keep them for prayer”
She replies,
To the casual visitor,
Rapt by the snakes,
Strewn across her soil.
The flat stare of death grips them,
Like a common touch,
They cannot resist.
She wraps her rosaries around her wrists,
Convinced the past is sealed like a burial crust,
Against decades of fevers and passions,
She has learned to never trust.
Imagining the valor,
Of accepting a man,
Like the god she fears and loves,
And depends upon
Without really ever knowing.