Physical Refuge

Shivering in the basin of Holy water,

The tired breath of a w***e echoes

Through the empty halls.

 

She lies softly in the dark blue flood

Of peaceful rays from the stained glass,

Each rose-thorned wrist a scar of her demon’s touch.

 

Carefully, she rested her back against a pew,

Embarrassed to stain the clean wood

with her filth from outside.

 

She could just hear Him drumming his knuckles

at her sad state, his eye was looking down on her sternly,

but full of pity.  Like an injured dog.

 

She always appreciated the moral support He tries to offer,

But her Father doesn’t have time to watch every mutt

With their chain linked collars,

 

When poodles and pure breeds’ prayers sing

More in tune with better melodies.

Her demon muted her a while ago.