It’s the image warped
in stained glass.
Warmth you’ve cast
from some deranged height.

In spite of obstacles.
In spite of everything.
You crawl on your belly,
singing of the anxiety,
the vexing worms
that gnaw your insides.

Someone close has died,
or is going to, and
a snowstorm screams
behind your eyes.

-r. miller

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