Stained Glass

Ointment oozes

beneath dried up makeup,

hours old.

Sores, 

craters,

cysts,

countless stains

on what’s supposed to be

porcelain;

Or so I thought

maybe for once

I wont be

seen as

rusted gold.

I tell you this:

rusted gold,

a hidden treasure,

I stand beneath

XX Pro

or Valencia.

Maybe for

once

stained glass

will be revered

as Porcelain.

Countless imperfections

cysts,

craters,

sores,

embraced. 

Above old, crusted dust

beauty oozes