It is all just broken shards of glass now.
The colors that shone so brightly are dull and dead.
The patterns had made such beautiful images, how I miss them.
Each image was a promise of endless bright days and nights to come.
The colors that shone so brightly are dull and dead.
The patterns had made such beautiful images, how I miss them.
Each image was a promise of endless bright days and nights to come.
Now it’s just a jumble of jagged lines.
There is no one with me to hear, but I bravely speak.
“I should pick them up, try to clean up the mess.”
I try, but they cut me, and I bleed, and my heart cries out.
Soon, I am just sitting among them again, cursing my weakness.
The stained glass window colors were so beautiful;
they shimmered in so many ways.
They promised endless bright days and nights to come.
Each fragment was part of a whole that was to be
an eternal image of love and beauty and meaning.
Now they are just colorless and cold, sharp dead things.
I must leave them alone unless I want to spend my days and nights in sorrow and pain.
