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Stained Glass Houses

My ancestors both near and far threw stones
Not at glass houses but at sunken faces
That can only lull to sleep aforementioned history
Blotted with historical downfalls
Hordes of people corralled into makeshift homes
Dragging blankets of disease and grief unto dusty cots
Don't call my skin a blot
Call it a miracle
Call it grace
A house not of glass but of roaming river cane, sticks, and plaster
So when those faces do awake
They will not throw the rocks back at an old glass house
It will be caught by weaved memories of a stagnant history book
And hopefully, that will be smashed into pieces with haste
Can we still say amen in a house that has been catapulted aimlessly
But has not waked up from the sleep that is humanity

© Noah Humphrey/Knowa Know

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