Stained Glass Window

My stained glass image was a ripe peach with spilt Zinfandel like electric rubies pooling around a gentle ray. It was a colour hungering to weave spirit out of light, so that all my prism touched felt nothing but the energy of day. Then there was Love, A star brighter than the sun, halting Sol Invictus and his fiery chariot before Aphrodite’s temerity. But Love’s luminosity burned a fearful depth of heat until all my eyes witnessed was overexposed film begging for clarity. My stained glass design mixed metallic salts fortified at melting point, colour forever permanent to mark my very being. You dipped your brush on a pallet of your vision and Trust let you paint over my very soul, creamy light forever fleeing. Your paint, by the very nature of it belonging to you, curator of my love, fused to my glass as if cooked in a kiln of fire. Never could I have believed you to devise a colour so terrible and diseased that sickness would filter where light used to transpire. Stained glass window, more true the words appear, But where others fear I can shatter my own glass or heart or soul and clean the tarnish by leaving out every piece you painted with twisted stroke and amass myself together until the colour of my light is whole.