It's the bloodshot white. The gloss of misery that blinds eyesight. A reflection of black and semi-gold, glowing from the irises and soul. What sorrow a little angel can hold, joy burnt out from the world gone cold. What's love got to do with anything when it's seeked through lust? Poor cherub diminished , left with no-one to trust. If words were heard through thought and not waves of sound, maybe we'd be able separate the winged glories from the hounds.
It's all the same, whenever I feel pain, blood and tears stream and drip away, lucid dreaming on the sole purpose to stray from being awake. It's like I do it to myself, all these cuts and scars, whenever I look in the mirror and see the black and semi-gold irises, the signs of her broken heart.