Nuns and Ales

Within a noun sleeps a nun,
separated from the "o" she'll never know
by the confines of her convent,
arches curved and strong.

And in those images of a god,
mystified behind stained glass windows
she'll find the wingless flies,
bodies broken and dead.

That's when fables read like ales,
drunk and dumb of miracles
and the only pub that's open is
in the friar's basement.

And all that sipping from a cup,
the body filled with thicker blood,
that's when language doesn't talk.
It's all wrapped up in bad habits.

While every nun is like a noun
without a satisfying lover,
every ale is like a fable,
a tryst sleeping on the tongue.