A chilling wind
cuts through the cloister
chafing her cheeks; 

stinging,
like the sharp slap
from her father,
when he fondled her.

Clutching her rosary,
she seeks solace
in the smooth wood, 

pressed and polished
from years of fingered flesh
and fervent prayer.

Drilled in silence,
duty bound,
she bows to the bells
demanding her obedience.

Sequestered;
she kneels in a pew
of hardened oak
seasoned by a soul's
lingering memories.

Looking up,
she stares at the Saviour
pinned to the stained cross,
His face chiselled in pain.
 

Closing her eyes,
she remembers the pangs
of perverted love.

Sighing, she prays;
 

the best-kept secret
between them held.