Stained Glass
Her filthy fingerprints sully handcrafted masterpiece. Luminescent colors of ruby, gold, and azure that once reflected brilliant light have become dingy and gray. Tears streak her cheeks, a nightly affair.
She lifts her eyes which are red and puffy from crying. The picture of her is misshapen and ugly. The halo over her head is tilted to the side and falling off. Wings that used to lift her high are marred with her suffering. Red stains the soft white and feathers scatter like her innocence; lost to the wind.
She lifts her fingers to her eyes, wiping away fresh tears. A delicate voice, her voice, says, "I'm broken."
Once more, she touches the stained glass. The hidden glow lies under layers of filth that she feels too abashed to wash. Why would anyone care to wash an old window when a new one could be purchased? The notion threatens to swallow her whole.
As she chokes on her tears she does not see the nimble hands of the craftsman who intervenes. Swift fingers that patch the bleeding heart and cut the pain with scissors. Feathers and wings are lifted high, reshaped, and reformed. Their old figure is forgotten. Something NEW is declared.
Rain. It washes the glass clean. The slate is fresh, new, and smells of spring flowers. The glass blooms in the light and reflects a dance of colors against the cold stone. She can lift her eyes and see a Glory that polishes her clean and marbled and white.
A word falls from her rosen lips. That word is love.
She lifts her eyes which are red and puffy from crying. The picture of her is misshapen and ugly. The halo over her head is tilted to the side and falling off. Wings that used to lift her high are marred with her suffering. Red stains the soft white and feathers scatter like her innocence; lost to the wind.
She lifts her fingers to her eyes, wiping away fresh tears. A delicate voice, her voice, says, "I'm broken."
Once more, she touches the stained glass. The hidden glow lies under layers of filth that she feels too abashed to wash. Why would anyone care to wash an old window when a new one could be purchased? The notion threatens to swallow her whole.
As she chokes on her tears she does not see the nimble hands of the craftsman who intervenes. Swift fingers that patch the bleeding heart and cut the pain with scissors. Feathers and wings are lifted high, reshaped, and reformed. Their old figure is forgotten. Something NEW is declared.
Rain. It washes the glass clean. The slate is fresh, new, and smells of spring flowers. The glass blooms in the light and reflects a dance of colors against the cold stone. She can lift her eyes and see a Glory that polishes her clean and marbled and white.
A word falls from her rosen lips. That word is love.
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