Dusting glass

My glass of faith has shattered and I–the prisoner of these walls–fall celled into my destruction.

He told me that I must believe and later embrace. He spun my thoughts, my guilt, my lust. And when I needed him he came by my side.

He bent down and cradled my body. He raised my broke eyes to the lightening in his. He said I was beauty, the coming more so.

But beauty is dust–and when I’ve shattered the glass, picking the pieces comes with spilt blood.

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