She had no oxygen…so I brought the metal devil to her.
Just a tourniquet for a blistered soul.
She never fared well, hot.
She never fared well, cold.
Quiet were her ways.
A tsunami were the words…she did not say.
One sinner could cling to her devotion.
Just as I, began to sink slowly in her god-fearing lifeboat.
Out and out, by myself, in a turbulent ocean.
Every Sunday metal tank set at ease.
No longer was she…to kneel before the hosanna.
Wheeled, forefront and center, beside other elders…
strands of rosaries, strung together like christmas lights.
A hymn all their own.
One Sunday with all the prayers of faith and health.
One Sunday…when the oxygen ran out.
