Stained Glass

In a cathedral lined with glass of every

color that reflect with the setting sun,

cracked into patterns resembling those

of an inkblot test,

she spins, arms splayed and, in the

refraction of the stained glass, appearing to

bleed from all her limbs.

She does not just bleed red, however; she

purges from her soul a thousand colors from

years of torment and shame. The farther back in her

spirit she goes, the more vibrant and brilliant the hues

become and the more pure she grows.

Her head is raised toward the chapel ceiling,

eyes glistening and reddened with tears shed and shedding still

until her face is raw from the liquid.

Not a single noise leaves her parted lips, long silenced by life, on which

tears refract and dance with the light of the glass,

prisms into which infinity might be glimpsed as the

lady in black twirls, center stage, in the house of a

god she long ago assumed abandoned her.

The locks of her hair, the color of earth, are

illuminated in brightness and tones to match

the rest of her, and falls behind her, curling and bobbing

in her motion.

The woman, not a girl for many of her few years, is burdened

with the weight of a thousand lives, all seen through

the single vision of a child.

Despite this, and all that drags her down,

she floats, weightless, in the silence of the void and

in the rapidly approaching night.

Hours after the falling of the darkness there is one sound

that stirs the night, and it is a single, lonely snap

of the rope that held her aloft, off the planet.

The hush broken, the world quickly collapses as she does

onto the floor, broken and forming as a ragdoll

into unnatural angles.

The once beautiful cracks of the glass now shatter

inward, raining shards of light down in the moonlit

glow upon the girl.

The wind howls as though lamenting the

extinguished life, the innocence lost to the sands of time,

and the eons cannot replace her.

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