I don't know who or what or when or where,
but the faces by the window blur and smear,
like mortal souls in mortal casts
screeching through my veiled pasts.
They were silent and so was I;
none have wings to soar or fly.
And so we stared like angels falling,
mouthing names and other precious things.
I still see the stained glass window
between me and the world, making faces so
hauntingly unfamiliar.
