This was written months ago for a contest, but the contest died and no one was notified that we could now post our poems, so here it is.
--
There's a mirrored reflection in the iris of your eye
of what life really looks like when you start to cry.
Angels from heaven shed holy water to the ground,
waiting for some sort of hope, but hope can't be found.
Pupils quickly shrinking as a light is switched on;
sight begins to lessen until it's blinded gone.
Pawing at surroundings for a new form of sight;
begging for a voice to tell us all is right.
Your emerald painted iris may be the window to your soul,
but as long as it stays cracked you'll never be fully whole.
Shut the blinds and embrace a life dictated by the dark;
turning away from every ember that may dare to spark.
There's a mirrored reflection in the iris of your eye
of what life really looks like when you start to cry.
Angels from heaven shed holy water to the ground,
waiting for some sort of hope, but hope can't be found.
