Stained Glass Windows

the stained glass windows we create whose shards conform to different hues whether tranquil oceanic blue the eroticism of black or luminous marigold tempered by the sun-bright rays of our bright and treasured days. such a beautiful sight! take a picture for me but leave out the corners stained red by the blood of innocents the lambs of our self-proclaiming slaughter whose blood we can never return this i don't want to see. working hard at the construction of my window wondering, no - expecting your window to look just like mine looking for my face in every fragment. i looked and looked but could not see obscured by the angle of vanity enraged i picked up a mislayed hammer the kind you never need to look hard to find and raised it high with the hand that once held glass swung it down, and smash! smash! smash! oh, the clamor made you cry! until you cast me away and your tear ducts ran dry and even i shed tears when the pieces showered down lamenting that they did not fall neatly as would have suited me sick, disguisted by their chaotic pattern ashamed by the loss of their beauty. enough of this! i told myself returning to my window through with yours it's time to get back to work but where were all my colors? only one remained red, red, red, red and the others? i found them sleeping next to yours dead, dead, dead, dead