The march of time
Is all that is left to her now
It is an all encompassing
Ecstatic religion for her.
Silent, military in precision
Her life is counted out
In beats of unnoticed salutations.
She is sacred now
To the god of death
And as she approaches the mystery
She must, like all initiates, learn its language.
They fear her now
For her knowledge of that other tongue.
I imagine her,
Drawn as a skeleton
Her face illuminated by the mysteries of silence
Coming from some window,
Lit with the joyful faith of the painted martyrs.
Until I remember that she was not Christian
In the days before this cult of unthinking meditation.
And indeed the unconverted
Will sing over her
The purity of the religion without dogma.
by Sophia Nugent-Siegal ©