She told me there was no
rock hard enough to
smash
against her crazy mind,
no song loud enough to still
the raging waves of her thoughts,
no broom thick enough to
suck up
the dust of her memory.
Daily she suffered
immutable mumblings,
like the low hum of cars turning on,
like a baby who doesn’t know the
difference between
sleeping and eating
breathing and crying.
Only a little figure pinned to the wall
and a little chain of beads she keeps
between her fingers
keeps still the rage.
Symbols so many called useless,
even me (but not my Father).
Was I wrong?
As she lay inside the vessel of endless days
I wondered.
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