Inside the accidental chapel,
linked to monitors and IV tubes,
the sacred Host reposes
in a living tabernacle
young, pale, fragile.
Masks and gloves and aprons keep
germs of humanity from
weakening her further -
if that matters anymore.
The demon crucifies her flesh and bones,
pins arms and legs
to the mattress of a metal bed
where sores and aches
afflict her Lazarus body
beneath its leaden weight.
Her eyes say
she will seek her
Passion, add substance to the
theories we received.
With trepidation she awaits
the unrelenting emancipation
(so hopeful, so beautiful amid such gravity,
one must believe).
Oil of God is spread upon her pallid brow,
transcendent words usher her
towards the deep unknown.
She turns her fretful, hopeful mind towards
the dread cacophony that utters night,
awaits the dawn that from on high shall break
upon a better place
of enduring peace.
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