Iris

Black or gray or hazel or blue,
Irises of every hue,
Are but mirrors, for I see
Your shining eyes reflecting me.

But sometimes they're like a glass,
Into the inner depths they pass,
Alight with happiness, contorted with pain,
Bleeding with tears yet again,
In which the sparkle drowns;
Or else disfigured by a frown,
Or burning with hatred etched deep,
Or sometimes invisible as you sleep.
Sometimes aglow with an angry flash,
Sometimes hidden when you're shy or abashed,
Sometimes brimming with a love so pure,
That any misery it can cure.

These eyes are windows to brightened skies,
But they're more than just 'eyes',
For through them your thoughts peek,
For the whole world to seek.