Living Dead

Her eyes, they're black;
As black as coal,
Both iris and pupil;
Beautiful they say.
'The window to her soul',
And you could lose yourself in those eyes;
Eyes that tell a story;
The story of her despair,
Because eyes don't lie.
And hers are dark;
Scars that she will always carry,
Hiding what she's unable to un-live,
What she can never un-see.
And they're the perfect reflection,
Of her heart;
A black so pure, it's painful.
Because how could such a heart even beat?
And then you see them,
Her bones;
Her carcass,
The decay,
And those beautiful black eyes;
They're merely a distraction,
And they stop you from noticing,
She's the living dead.