I’m torn between those golden irises and that pair of silver lining eyes.
All hell along a bright tapestry; mother of pearl, where violence ensues.
Twisted and spiderwebbed like cracks running through glass floors, between everything that eases these canine waters, and the things that run them rabid.
I’m a filthy wretched thing, born of mud, and crafted specifically for excess, but I could drown in this as gold or honey, like a witches dandelion blessing.
This is soft lace in a red desert, where the swords are planted, but never grow.