Angelhood Poem by DM W

Her gnarled fingers caressed
The faded rosary beads
Like a long lost friend.
Like the violin virtuoso,
Of a more enlightened age
She played with them
Until her hands bled.
Unlike her contemporaries,
Wracked by hydra headed neuroses,
And myriad discontents,
She was not obsessed
by the meaningless meanderings
Of decidedly lesser gods.
Or distracted by the enticing
Patterns & designs
Of trivial particulars.
Concerned only with the seed,
And not the redolent glow
Of flower or of fruit,
She crafted prayers
In perpetuity.
Until they began to resemble
The glorious form of an
Otherworldly beauty;
Beloved by the angels;
Unexplored by modern minds.