Flat as a prairie is my soul—
without canyon, without crest
or cliff or hill to climb and stroll.
Now that death has taken toll,
flat is all that I have left—
and dry: My tears have all been cried,
my eyes are dry as prairie sand,
empty of the liquid stars
that shined in your eyes, shined in ours,
and empty as the wrinkled hand
that reaches for your breaking heart,
but ends instead with prairie weeds
and dust, and claws across the flat
to grasp at something, anything that
fills the valley of my needs.
Since you left, it’s only plains—
no tree-like softness, nothing full
of love and joy, or life redeeming.
Dull and flat, except for dreaming
of your depth of heart and soul.
