Looking Through Stained Glass


Traded as payment for overdue wage
She knows, though it’s gilded, it’s still a cage
She’s yet to see sun
Shipped from place to place, displayed on a stage
To those whose tastes prefer ones underage
For sick sense of fun

She’s told back home no one’s missed her absence
She does not believe in their evidence
But bows to their might
Forced to do things against her conscience
Knowing what they do to those called nuisance
Flees into the night

Thunder rolls, storm clouds brew:
It was the sound of His measure of her trouble
It was the sound of His dread for her plight

Bloodied to a near pulp from being beat
In deepest fear of the oncoming feet
It was much too near
Oblivious to the filthy concrete
She lays prostrate in the dark on the street
It’s all she can hear

Brought to this new land for a tidy sum
From a land she never asked to leave from
She was their plaything
Smelling of cocaine, and cheap stale rum
She lays there waiting for death to come
She hears them calling

Lightning strikes, raindrops pelt:
It was the sound as His anger mounts
It was the sound of His tears falling

Glass grinds into her already raw shin
The pain raises a moan from deep within
They hear her outcry
A tear is slowly sliding down her chin
As they plunder through her most tender skin
Knives do not ask why

As each breath she takes become more shallow
Smiling, she knows she won’t see tomorrow
Her end has begun
She’s raised from the filth in which she wallows
A shining light eases her deep sorrow
At last she sees sun

Dew drops, Sun rises:
It was the sound as His arms open
It was the sound of His words of welcome

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© 2005 Raivenne (All rights reserved)

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