Amnesia

[archerchick]

Only one small touch was required
to set a spark

to start the glass factory in motion.
The stained glass
all pressed together,
igniting secretly
from the heat.

We all knew they'd melt, the colors
blending(?)
and mixing together,

yet oil always rises to the top of water.

We don't mix, you and I.
You and I and you. And you
too.

Who is "you"?
Who could it be?
I think I know who I am referring to,
but then there is also
you over there.

We open the oven and we see our work,
the colors speculating their own origin and
composition,
the bold metal grey outlines
cutting our interiors.

I wanted to be purple, but my
imperfect red
made it impossible to mix with
any sort of blue.

All of the others yelled at me to
procreate
colors with them,
but I wanted to be a beautiful
purple glass

gem.

Seems I'm just going to be the blood,
the oil,
that just sits there;
unwanted.