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.
Oxymoronic Faith.
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.”
August 28th, 2016 at 1:58 pm
Loved how this poem turned.
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August 28th, 2016 at 2:03 pm
Thank you.
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August 28th, 2016 at 6:23 pm
Amazing picture. I like your setting this between Genesis and Revelations. Wonderful image.
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August 29th, 2016 at 11:01 am
Thank you. 😀
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August 28th, 2016 at 11:51 pm
Missing her resolve or the ritual? THIS is an INERESTING poem, Michelle. Been talking about something similar with friends this week.
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August 29th, 2016 at 11:02 am
The resolve, the faith in something outside myself. I’m not too big a fan of the ritual, but people seems to get something from the faith and the resolve it brings.
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