The Minatory Choirs

She’s a flower of burned dirt with pale and bony legs - her emaciated thighs etched with scars. She’s been cutting to the music of an inner, minatory choir - a song of spite-filled sorrow and perpetual farewell. Christmas in the shadows the hopeless hollow-days in the kind of barren places where our savior made his way. The angels mark your passing and they understand your pain - when the roll is called in heaven seraphim will speak her name.