Arnaldo Bassini

He rises with the matins bell
as he has done every morning
for the last thirty three years.

Warm feet on cold stone confirm
once again that slumber has
been broken.

In the darkness, wax papered
hands assemble to solicit
undeserved graces; cracked
lips mumble and stumble for
forgiveness in a time when
Babylonian bones stained in sin
seek solace within the white lily of
the flaming heart.

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