Sometimes I have to remind myself
That as close as I live to the mountain's majesty
I am not made of stone.

Despite the sands of time that collect
under my eyes, dragging down into a landslide
of bruises

Regardless of how cold and hard my hands feel
as they guide warm flesh towards
hidden despair

There is still blood in my veins, channeling
through a heart heavy as the earth they
poured over an early grave

My very bones erode with their own weight
The gravel in my wrists is agonizingly
brittle

You said I have such large, pretty eyes but I fear
these petrified jungles are threatening to drown me
and the monsoon provides no relief

I've an avalanche of grief that promises rest
My cradle or my grave
or both.