Condensation blurs the world outside,
Droplets running down,
Create wobbling streaks,
Intermittent rivulets of clarity.
Jack Frost’s busy fingers painted,
Crystal fantasies as I slept,
Beauty that distorts,
But ironically enhances.
Within the sanctuary,
Viewing through stained glass,
Various colors interpret the landscape,
As spectrum beams stream inward.
Through whose lens shall I peer?
Through whose pane interpret
The realm outside my home,
Thoughts outside my own mind?
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