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In Hopes of Life Consecrated

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Large gray eyes staring
She is perplexed, you can tell

Thick scattered smudges sully
the big glass box in which she is trapped
A prism (a prison) of her own making, but, still
your conscience shrieks knowingly

As she prates on you see
she is broken with her mere being
rattling somewhere inside her chest
in unison to the bleating echoes of her stories
from the night before

Her smile, it dwindles
as though each chicklet tooth
was knocked down
like scuffed bowling pins on an unwashed floor
in some skeevy dive

The ever-present thought takes over
and the words fall delicately from your lips,
landing like fine, stable snow

Closing your eyes, you hope
they hit home
(Now, not too hardly)
and that these thick sheets of glass become
thin, rose panes of cellophane.





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