She lays the bible on her chest, to give reason for confession. Driveled words evoke the passing strangers as formal logic kindles below the tree line. The chaste autumn is drowning in the shallow waters of her sins. She comes to the realization that aggression is frisson to his spine. He quivers and makes a toast to mortality and all of its benefits. But the moss is dripping from the baby's bed, an impelling act found repugnant. Venomed songs draw in concerned friends. The intensity breaks into laughter, memories displaced for seconds on end. She'll always knuckle under hidden pressure, and pule to the pictures in the mirror. Still somewhere there is a thin sheet of compassion waiting. A map was drawn, but it is too hard to find. Maybe someday she�ll succumb to her own calling, and the people will enshrine their hatred.
