The Naked Lady

I studied the strides of her restless feet.
They had the rhythm of a distant song.
Elegant, graceful, but out of time.
She is the model of a faith, tailored to suit her mortified body.
Her daily prayers and fasting are
But to bind and cast into the abyss of denial;
The twin smooth demons called Age and Death.
And as a rite of accomplishment,
She discards a dress after each meal.
I heard her sang and giggled to a nursery rhyme,
With a voice as primitive as a shadow.
She is as hysterical as a siren; seeing wolves in her own shadow.
Yet like Santa, to the naive, she is an idol.
This morning, she offered me some clothes.
Stained at each collar by the undeniable fingerprints,
Of the ghosts of prosperity and blissfulness.
"Here, cover your poor body with these". She said.
And as grateful as I was for her kindness,
I stared at the noble lady and wept.