Stained Glass

We are told as children, To keep away from sharp objects, In fear that we might rip a tear, In our freshly spun silk. But like all things, We are in constant flux. Somewhere along the line, Our silk turns to glass, Our tears turn to shatters. Now how exactly, Did they think we could steer clear, Of our own scattered shards? The answer, My dear, Is that we simply cannot. We must pick them up, With hands, however bloody, Tainting every piece. The light of dawn, Will then shine…

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