She no longer looked beyond those verses for understanding.
Not at the trends and the signs,
the symptoms of the crimes.
It was all, for her, between Genesis and Revelations.
As such she had no new revelations,
with which to start her genesis to a new state of self.
I loved her in a way,
and pitied her in another,
but I respected her resolve.
Holding up those beliefs,
like so much Chantilly Armour.
Her own strength at it’s foundation,
owing nothing to another entity but herself,
though she staunchly refused to see it.
I listened to her chanting her prayers,
her sacrament of self delusion,
and could only think.
“Maybe that’s what I’m missing.”