The Huntress

Basking in ripples of hot sand,

lining the bottom of the glass,

delicate waves of silicate,

cascade down as the hours pass,

and even while it rains down,

past the point they refer to (in hushed whispers) as "prime",

I find new and interesting ways,

to go about killing time.

In some of my dreams I become a phantom,

and haunt the girl I was in my youth,

sometimes she wears charms to ward me off,

sometimes she asks me for the truth.

And I'll tell her, I've been captured once or twice,

but never domesticated,

that I've burned a thousand bonfires,

fueled with all that I've created,

round and round in circles,

feet never touching the floor,

miles and miles over careworn tracks,

until I meet with her once more.