she knelt, a
mother of none, before
a mother of all,
tired between her
stiff legs, over bent knees
scavenging
with torn fingernails
pouring over the soil and stones
searching for her child
never born, never found
never told of love stories
and wishbone grassy mounds
deep underground in her churning
*****, burning viscera, spewing
laic songs of hope; night-time
lullabies, war chants, waiting
for the birth,
for him to climb with tender arms
from warmth to cold, toward
a searching woman lost
digging for her babe

though saints there are and holy men too
beware of the priest that bows too low
for his overt servility makes fool of you
as he treads upon unwary foe

for in his eyes, the layman and laic
are way beneath his dignity
just placed there to create mosaic
'gainst which to display his divinity

You were sitting alone while humming to the howl of a fire, that burned a single bar of cinnamon
You were eating a paper, that scathed by the tortuosity of a man, with his boredom
You were trying to fill a void, meddling the matter of the laic
Were you, dead before the words have been spoken?