She tripped on it
rambling through
the forgotten field.
The grimy thing sat amidst
a pile of rotten junk,
The ***** halo.
She wiped it on her sleeve,
drab and hanging loose
on cold bones
like a mossy fern after
Winter’s damnation.
Spinning the halo
on a fingernail,
an eclipsed moon.
Clouds pinched at each other
grey, like the saggy suit
of a man
with a furrowed brow,
a bleak prayer on his heart
culminating into a trinity
of holy mystery.
The faded halo
now forgotten,
kicked and bent
like the neck of a sinner
who’s bowed head
could never
steep far enough,
deep enough
down
to reach
the pit
of
forgiveness.