She reads the day the adam and the eve. She prefers amber and soft red fruits to the green envious bitter ones. She reads the insults thrown, time and time again and feels sad for the throwers, and sadder still for the insults who refused to throw themselves. She prays for them whole.
She is wrongly accused of unlove and unfaithfulness where she Loved much without taking one bite. And there they nail their muse ~ and with amusement force-feed her vital organs, apples with a bite missing ~ foie gras. In deepest faith she is imprisoned in celibacy, a freedom named by others, a jailer with the Giant bunch of keys. She reads between the lines of the scribes that scribbled her life unfaithfully ill literate, who won their volumes and accolades upon her untainted skin. They spit their spit, her face.
She feels sad for their ink spilled beyond understanding. Each inky mark engraved like thorns tenscore in her skin, gouged like a score card with no opponent. And still she Loves them. She forgives them ~ for they know not the Love nor the sin. The commentators want to break her legs, but then believe she is already broken dead, though stranger still she dances, dances in spirit wherever she may be. Their wrath belongs solely to themselves as they wonder how can someone who is no one, dare to consider herself equal in dignity to someone who is everyone? Dignity poverty miracle.
But still despite her living death, her body is pierced in the side by the entourage as a way of finishing her off ~ Dead ~ Casting lots for her nakedness. To their utter knowing ~ out pours the Love that the cherubim poured in ~ mixed with the already fulness of Love intrinsic. It overflows like water and wine. It overflows like Love. It overflows Love. Love overflows.
And in the Autumn Fall she glitters on the edge of a snowflake burning like the Winter, Full of Sonlight.
She is taken down from the Cross.
And buried Alive