My life was a window colored with stain, its panes were all painted by pleasure and pain.
It's pieces were perfect each fit side by side, yet far too frail for through storms, to abide.
For tragedy is always worst at its start, when it cuts through the fabric you know as your heart.
The fabric that held all those pieces together, was far too weak for such treacherous weather.
And as waves came crashing through all that I knew, the fragments were swallowed by deep ocean blue.
Those panes were the one place my life did abide, so undoing that true life should bring their divide.
The storm left me empty and tossed too and fro, as no more than torn fabric with nothing to show.
Then the lie of my nothing became something true, and this ocean became the one thing I knew.
