The Rosary The Church


The slippery, polished, granite beads slip through my fingers.

A silent Hail Mary breaking through the quiet pews.

The magnamic face of a Man who knows me,

crests at the cross roads of the rose.


Droping another five beads, I reach the cross.

Its sharp edges pierce holes in my fingertips,

consistently begging the question-



Voices pass between school children,

Hushs from nuns and priests alike,

Somewhere in the deep recesses of the cathedral an Ave is sung.


Agnes roams these halls and arched atriums of mosaic,

Old wood carvings in the forms of saints and demons.

No matter where I peer over my clasped fingers there is purpose, design.



I cling to Mary,

Praying that through these silver chain links, beads, and figurines,

I can once again find an answer to the oldest question.


Flutter of eyelashes,

Deep breathing.

Bent knees,

Sore back;


I begin my search again.


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