Magadelene by S.P.

​You seem to me a god hiding
his own golden image.
I can not touch you;
I can not pay my dues in return
for your priceless gifts.
Therefore, my love is incomplete.
=========

Her garments are dirty
her feet bleed from thorns
her desires to into dust

Yet,
daily,
this woman
nourishes her despair in lonely silence
feeds herself with nightly tears
covers sorrow with patient smiles.

She is a widow from her birth.