where the stairs and shadeless parquet are
dark, yet sharded with illume, there are no
lines, only the railing

once it has gone, all has run into itself like between
the rainbow strands:
not quite blue, not quite green, where it is

just a colourless stained glass, black and
clouded, begetting the shards tiptoed among, without

because we wouldn't want to tread into the
light, or restore the window, for the matter, as then it would
be red and green once more, rendering us
stained, defined, yet insoluble and
lastingly edged

and you could see that those coloured
dust facets never felt the earth, and how could they
when they fill the mended

so forlorn, that only in the
old shards could we be dissolved and outshine,
such a sorrow that it must be

A/N - About time I updated, eh? Please review!