3

My follies merit nothing
if not with love I live.
Love, with all its darkened tendrils;
with all its shards of glass.
Reflections of self, not worth--
confusion contorts the image of my own. 
Stained panes fit your name into my own window,
yet now retain their shapes.
What merits differentiation, 
could not with depth succumb;
it plummets with the follies
of which I've often sung.

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