Rosary Beads

You know you’re fucking it all down to the ground with your vacant looks and your fish faced stare.

Then you spoke! I was someone else for a moment; engaged in gossip like a groupie infested with lust for fame and shiny gold plated bling.

What became of my intellectual underpinnings, a desire for books to enclose around me, and that rebel we-don’t-understand vibe?

Is it I who was mistaken when I judged you too soon? Are filled lips just as tasty as regular lips? Are vacant looks filled with more sorrow than A Picture of Dorian Gray?

I’m now bleeding philosophical perspiration from my pores. It’s flowing down into the stormwater drains to the sea.

I’m perspiring Aristotle, Foucault, Nietzsche and more. I’m infecting the sea with philosophy.

Should I worry that rich people with yachts will touch the water I infected and find Bitcoin boring?

Will they walk in a different direction or put down their Versace cushions to move about looking at the sky and the sea as they mutter eccentrically?

Would people think they were being touched by an angel, or would they melt at the thought of the devil?

Standing and speaking to this rather fashionable Nun, I’m unable to speak for a moment as her words creep over me.

She holds the rosary beads up to my height and I feel that childhood pew. My knees suffered on that wood for sins I hadn’t even committed.

Then she said, “You’re a wicked one the way you think too much. The devil will get you in the end.

Miss Nun jolted me out of my musings and back to the dark. Without warning, words escaped my lips as I walked away, “Well if you see the Pope you can tell him I want a refund for all those rosary beads I had to buy as a kid. They didn’t work…

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clarissawoodwrites

I spin words from a different space • music, the sea, and nature makes my words spin • ex-lawyer • I love turning ideas on their head •

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