Some Days Are Longer Than Most Years
She Ransacked through the rubble
strewn, rusted, rancid in its glory
To weave remorse with autumn
leaves on her braille skin, but
The Rattan threads snaked, stalking
frayed memories grazing at her feet
To the fading light of a Rebel sun
restitutionary in its golden tears.
Hues of Redemption cascaded from
her cheeks to a familiar Rhapsody
A song, more ancient than time
Ripened on disfigured vines
Dripping Rivulets of fermented wine
on the Rosary chaining her wrists.
Waiting, weighted with a Rucksack
brimming with sins and dry Rye bread
as the dead fish floated downstream.