You were the red rose to my broken heart
Scattered pages of my endless fall
As your ink paints, the rose all black,
the pages crumble all to trash.
Angel to some,
demon to others,
The broken wing all tied up,
in the traps of no escape.
Is it a symbol,
for the struggle to be freed?
Once her eyes were afraid of the dark,
Now she finds herself in it.
The color defines her heart,
With a little hint of blue in it.