Milk curdles in her jar,
mould forms on her black bread.
She’s come so very far,
but her blue Polish eyes
no longer see the flies
buzzing above her head.
She does not hear her friend
knocking at the door.
This is her journey’s end,
the faithful silly dear.
Christ does not shed a tear,
not for the meek and poor.
He looks down from the wall,
with both arms open, heart
sacred, eyes blind to all,
truly not of this world.
He does not see her curled-
up broken flesh depart,
the hour towards the skies.
He won’t feed her a lie,
nor redeem a bone.
He will leave her alone
in the kingdom where she lies.
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