Flat as a Prairie Is My Soul

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.


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