At the end of my rope, I
look down at
it all.
The forest
Opening into the meadow—
The stream gliding softly
Over a rock that’s sure
To be my favorite.
Her obsidian hair,
Swallowing the Sun—
My eyes in the mirror of
Her milky skin.
Where’s that knife!
Jul 17, 2025
Jul 17, 2025 at 2:52 AM UTC
At the end of my rope, I
look down at
it all.
The forest
Opening into the meadow—
The stream gliding softly
Over a rock that’s sure
To be my favorite.
Her obsidian hair,
Swallowing the Sun—
My eyes in the mirror of
Her milky skin.
Where’s that knife!
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