Canyon

She is a canyon,
beautiful in the setting sun.
Cut by wind and water, eroded
over time; worn down,
tired, lovely.
Her delicate wrists are worrying-
boulders balanced on thin
ridges, miraculous and
terrifying. Her brown eyes
carry ages with them; it is like
looking into a chasm,
into a deep unknown darkness
that nothing fills.
I wish for her to be a meadow
or a stream, mountains
or hills at least. But she
is a canyon,
enchanting and alarming;
and it is killing me.







Formed right as I was falling asleep. As in I was actually in a semi-dreaming state, and then this came into my head, and I woke myself up and wrote down what I could remember. It was obviously better in my dream, but this is the gist.