I worship
The glass deity,
Inside the temple of insanity;
My temple of insanity.

With spirals for eyes,
And darkness for lips,
She shines in the moonlight.
My goddess, I bow to her.

She gazes
With eyes of pity,
Inside the temple of insanity;
My temple of insanity.

Her skin was glass
And I was oblivious to my nails.
Her blood bathed in the moonlight,
My goddess, please forgive me.

On her throne
I'm sitting,
Inside the temple of insanity;
My temple of insanity.

I’m maddened at how
one night of lost sleep
launches you
into every shelf
of glass achievements
until there’s nothing
of your lifetime work.

But the way
you kaleidoscope
stained glass cathedrals,
bright chapels and shrines
from the crystal heap
will always
weaken my knees and
be magic to me.

don't touch me, for i might crack
don't hit me, for i might break
don't yell at me, for i will shatter

these glass walls hold my porcelain soul,
but cannot protect me from the world
the pain, the love, the hurt—

paint my face the way it should be
a smile and bright red cheeks
i am yours to design

As we sit, take our seats in the banquet hall,
everyone rushes to be the first to feast,
while we’re left choking on the past.
Does no one hear the wind,
wailing against the stained glass?

Silver goblets raised in mock celebration,
filled with the essence that I poured.
Gleeful toasts echo against fractured stone,
laughter filling the banquet hall.
Does no one see the blood,
dripping down these chains?

A little too late,
they finally look around.
The stained glass has cracked,
its stories bleeding out onto the marble floor.
The drapes now hang in tatters,
lace left ripped in shreds.

Is this what you wanted?
The desecration of this citadel?

As walls begin to tremble,
pillars groan under the weight of decay,
no one stays to help.
They run.
Feet that once stood in reverence
trample the sacred,
careless, unburdened.

But I remain.

Veins of frost cover the walls,
the ceiling yawns open, snuffing out the light,
and I cannot move.
Not as the glimmering chandeliers fall,
not as the stone gives way beneath me,
not as the ruins cave in.

As the winter chill creeps in,
the dust now settles.
Within the silence
of these hallowed grounds,
the echoes of laughter now lost.

As I watch from beyond.

A ghost draped in apathy,
watching the remnants of me buried,
watching the last echoes of my warmth
fade into cold ash.
Wondering if I will ever
rise back from the ashes.

No hands reach
into the wreckage.
No voices
call my name.
No one mourns.
And maybe
they never will.

In the depths of night, a scent of blood hangs heavy in the air,
as if the clouds themselves had wept pools of blood, for their
sorrows in the form of rain.

I gently brushed away tears from a shard of ancient, stained
glass, lost in contemplation of the countless destinations we
could have been, our adventures stretching infinitely like the
vastness of the sea.

Yet, amidst the myriad of dreams we dared to envision,
the glass whispered a profound truth:

We are only as broken as the reflections we allow our
external mirrors to see.

The rain fell,
Far from the sky.
Down upon the rocky shores,
And all through the night,
Weathered the rock to sand drop by drop.

Then in the morning the sand blazed bright,
For the man to see.
Down to the shore he went,
And dug up the sand then,
Went and made colored glass.

Crystal tears,
Make up a diamond sea,
Where on the golden shores,
Glass roses grow.

But I picked the green weeds instead.