Stained Glass Poem by Gabe Florsheim

The picture is, in essence, perfect
Without the fact it bursts with light.
The light refracts and tinted pictures
Really do explode to life.

So why, I ask, did someone tell,
A trully awful, awful claim;
That this glass wasn't pure enough
And given such an awful name.

Stained, you say? Is color wrong?
Beauty isn't purely white.
A tale of heroes, trapped in poses,
Tormented by the morning light.

Why should we look down on them,
When they, not we, have carved our path.
They raised the world and cried it down,
'cause we only know of pain and wrath.