Onward: My Soul Is Not A Paint By Number Set Poem by Linda Kaastra

There is an impression in this atmosphere
Of the moment my senses etched the stone wheel
That works the system that plays the game

It could be our name calling
It could be a ruse
It could be an unexpected truce
But something stained me and it never comes clean

There are layers and layers of nuance on these branches
Hints and hues of borrowed ideology
Shades and tints from sacred glass the world over

It could be Your Name calling
It could be a ruse
It could be an unexpected truce
But something stained me and it never comes clean

My soul (A) on its way to sacred spire (B) raises arms (C) to sacred branch (D) pulling string (E) thereby lifting wings (F) projecting key (G) to dragon's (H) muzzle (I)
igniting breath of fire (J) burning said wings (K) which turn to sand (L)
producing stained glass windows (M)

it could be your name Calling
It could be a ruse
It could be an unexpected truce
But something stained me and it never comes clean