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.
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