Pretty on a paper,
perfect in its place.
Each color isolated.
No breath; no living space.
Paper doll patterns,
line up in class.
Attention gilds their edges.
No love; no living space.
One day a new song,
breaks into the rhythm.
Drums no longer beat
a monotonous grief.
One small breath; simple living space.
Wonders in stained glass,
lay exact in their frames.
The master selects each color
with precision and plan.
No shame; a new living space.
How so our world?
We behave like paper dolls.
In copy harkening to a drum
that marks Death's chant.
Fly from these walls, all you colors of glass.
Breathe in the air and soar to the clouds.
Sing a song that will free your soul,
and look for your Master's true given place.
