From Clay Canyon
Inside this pit of clay
sandstone, I slip from grips
unpromised, pause to delay
the climb, take breaths for bricks
that may disintegrate
this skeptic. But softened grips
hold proof this body weight
has been deceptive. I know
as clocks disintegrate,
my skin will tick below.
Some ropes could maybe save
me. Someone would have to know
my state. This vertical cave —
this sinkhole — I’ll crawl out
by clawing divots, and save
remarks on thirst. Without
my pickaxe on the clay
sandstone, death is on delay.
Won Shim H. Dadachanji is currently seeking a bachelor’s degree at Salisbury University for English Creative Writing. She has not been published anywhere before now, and she dreams of becoming a successful author and writing editor in the years to come. Raised in Maryland but having family around the world, she loves to travel to new places. However, travelling has come to a brief halt due to immersing herself in finishing her degree and working front desk at a physical therapy clinic. On the other hand, her mind has been doing the wandering, which is shown in her writing. She often uses poetry to flush out her innermost feelings, even if she doesn’t always realize it until she starts the editing process.
Beaver Magazine 