She is not the view from the sky.
Clouds do not mask her beauty or hide its darkest parts.
She is the world beneath his feet on the ground,
bright and alive and unforgiving and terrifying.
She is the air that has filled his lungs and kept him breathing
since his boots were first muddied by the unforgiving earth,
some days cold enough to kill,
and others that fill you with so much warmth it stings.
She is both the fire that bloodies the sky,
that blackens flesh and trees,
and the flames that crackle next to sleeping bodies,
that gives them life until the warm morning comes.
With a face like thunder,
a storm beneath a clouded gaze,
just enough to warn you before her voice ignites,
the crackle that stings and singes its target.
With a soul like the sea,
beautiful, though secrets hide in its dark depths,
always changing, always shifting,
always powerful, always strong.
She is not the view from the sky, detached and distant.
She is the world beneath his feet on the ground, dangerous and exhilarating,
and she makes him think that maybe, just maybe,
Earth is not as terrifying as it seems.
the earth may crumble, but she will not
special thank you to @bellamylovedlincoln for listening to my rambles about diction and syntax and for reassuring me that i can make words after some food and a good night’s sleep