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Dying Canyons
I long to lead you to the psychosis of your existence;
toward the ill repute of your identity, something amiss reaches for meaning.
I would rather wish you gone before too much is said.
I would rather wish you gone before too much is said.
I long to lead you to the thorny wire crawling around my limbs,
or maybe you rather fancy my fettered hands.
As you have taken much and I so little.
As you have taken much and I so little.
I long to lead you to my endless skeleton assortments,
to my primordial fossils and domestics departed.
Highland mammals unknown.
Highland mammals unknown.
I long to lead you to my senseless heights,
to the vast drop from which they have risen and fallen—
The dying canyons chilled with black fog.
The dying canyons chilled with black fog.
I long to lead you to my fingers scratching the backbone of lost time,
every tip stroke leaving a distinctive marking.
They possess your hidden origin.
They possess your hidden origin.
I long to lead you to my clouded eyes that see all,
to the squalid corrosion that cakes my lungs.
Through the cavity I was born.
Through the cavity I was born.
I hunt for you…in the dying canyons chilled with black fog.
I hunt for you…in the dying canyons chilled with black fog.
I hunt for you…in the dying canyons chilled with black fog.
I hunt for you…in the dying canyons chilled with black fog.
Copyright ©
Laura Breidenthal
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