By Colin Johnson
I wiped the dust,
but the window still did not clear.
Splatters of dry tears exploded on the brown sill.
The clouds began to screech,
the stained glass shattered.
Blood started to appear in forms of stars,
escaping down my pale cheek.
The glass became frustrated,
and it glared back at me in hate.
Black figures slithered into the reflection,
the mirror told no lies.
My eyeballs crept towards the new world,
Red flames exploded, and the wait was over.
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