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She always loved to dance-
she would go until she dropped of exhaustion,
until her eyes closed and her soul sang,
and her son slowly fell into dreams.
She used to dance for God-
she used to sing for God,
to pray for God,
to join God in music and his Church,
and take communion every Sunday.
But the Church, the Church abandoned her,
and Father Giancarlo Fontana, he knew it.
He spoke for the Church.
He lost her love, and it pained him,
but he was a man with no regrets- only reflections,
sorrowful as they may be.
And Father’s faith, well it may be rock solid,
it may never waver with God,
but he sure doubts his people,
wonders where God went in all the rulemaking.
He even imagines that God
was thrown from the Church,
as Jesus was in their Holy Book,
which is more a guideline than anything else, right?
But she lived- she lived, and she was gentle,
and she learned happiness from an art
that was base and instinctual.
Her son grew up with her love of life,
slept through the crashing of cymbals and drums,
the booms of the bass and pittering pattering of
tranced mamma’s feet, sliding across the floor
as she let everything go to the Vertex.
