GlassEyed Saints

She smiles like midnight holy, haunted, razor thin, a promise wrapped in velvet with the sharpest edge within. You follow where her echoes lead, a moth chasing a flame, but every “maybe” that she breathes just fuels the losing game. She blesses you with softness that she never means to keep, then buries hope in lullabies that rock your heart to sleep. And still you kneel before her ghost, craving what she never gave a saint carved out of shadows, leading nice guys to the grave.