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Weeping lady, stained with glass. They’ll look right through, perplexed- mesmerised; The way sun mourns over skin- falling through your flesh to land on their faces, kissing them with aching yellows and greens; the way your anguished tears reach, and gasp, for light - falling by their feet, with the gaping maw of sky in their womb. ‘How beautiful’ they’ll say, as they watch the lady weep. ‘How gorgeous’ they’ll say, as they trace glass stained skin. ‘So precious… fragile’ they’ll say, as they walk away- the taste of your pane on their tongue; the green and yellow sun-tint of your breathe in their lungs; the salty sheen of your tears, sunk on their skin; a piece of your stained glass in their pocket.
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