Stained glass windows

and I

can’t see

the past of the past

walking beside me.

St John in the womb

and the presence

of Mary

all proudly

standing

but I can’t turn

to see

their divine eyes

white halos

pressed palms

of prayer

towering on steeple’s

holy air

watching out

for someone

like me.

because I’m walking

right past

the colored stained glass

I can’t care to be

what I’ve left

in each step

right behind me

the past is the past

and I’m walking too fast

to let

it

and the glass

catch up with me.