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Literature Text
i.
Her pale sea-foam dress swirls around bone white knees, caught in an endless maelstrom. It is fashioned from the salted tears of a thousand forsaken sailors and beaded together with stolen pearls—taken from the darkness of the sea's deepest chasms and hidden, suffocating caverns—and seems to undulate with nothing less than the utterly formidable wrath of Poseidon himself.
She is as indisputably unfathomable as the ocean itself, with mottled blue lips, eyelashes laced with droplets of brine and damp hair that twists in limp rivulets down her back. When the curling wind brushes that seaweed hair to the side, it reveals that she is dotted from the very top with barnacles where there ought to be a spine.
ii.
Far away from the ragged shoreline, wounded by the ceaseless caress of the sea from every side, there stands a lonely wave-washed lighthouse that reaches into the sky and far across the ominous, writhing water. Once, it was a sentinel; a keeper of light shielding the land-dwelling world from its deep-sea counterparts. Even unspeakable beasts, the most terrible of guardians, that would take on writhing, slick-skinned forms and emerge from the ocean's rough, crevassed skin dared not pass.
Its lantern room now lies abandoned, lenses cracked and encrusted with the consequence of years of neglect; the clockwork mechanisms beneath long corroded, stricken stiff and useless by the cruel breath of the sea breeze. The lighthouse had been crumbling away into the sea brick-by-brick, forlorn and without any purpose until she gave it one. This is why she adores it so. They co-exist rather comfortably together, liquid and stone.
iii.
She had loved some of them, those sailors, even before she had lured them into her—especially those with the ocean overflowing inside their heart valves and pumping through arteries, infusing their bodies with coral and salt; rolling waves reflected within their wide, glassy eyes. They call her an angel while she draws them in with a song and pretty promises, unsuspecting of danger until it's far too late.
(She takes them for her own.)
iv.
There is no blood rushing through her veins, only the might of water breaking against the coast. She was born of the ocean, and to it she shall always belong. The lighthouse is her home, though those fearsome creatures of the deep welcome her to them as an old friend—the oldest. It is her duty to drape Dead Man's Fingers over rocks, and paint far-flung coral with all the colours of the early evening sky; creating a soft sundown display to stretch across the underwater horizon, mirroring that which hangs in the sky high above.
As she must coax life into her briny world, she must control it.
v.
For many, the last thing they ever see before the ocean rises above their eyelids and pulls them beneath, consuming them entirely, is that lighthouse. With every rush of the ebbing tide, the deep red of its white patterned exterior fades further, transforming it from a beacon and a bringer of light into a skeleton; a darkened and eerie omen.
It is a warning for the wise and an invitation to the reckless, the naïve, those who allow petty desires to cloud their better judgement. She smiles, a movement as fluid as ripples on a calming water's surface, and muses over the fact that, somehow, there are always so many to choose from.
vi.
Thick glass storm panes that once encircled the lantern room are no longer present and as she sits at the lighthouse's very top, wind begins to swirl around her body, brutal and cold in all of its ferocious might. She waits and watches for whomever the waves will bring as her next fleeting love. It has to be soon. Her hair billows around her head, almost dry, and she wets her cracking blue lips.
She can see a ship on the horizon.
Her pale sea-foam dress swirls around bone white knees, caught in an endless maelstrom. It is fashioned from the salted tears of a thousand forsaken sailors and beaded together with stolen pearls—taken from the darkness of the sea's deepest chasms and hidden, suffocating caverns—and seems to undulate with nothing less than the utterly formidable wrath of Poseidon himself.
She is as indisputably unfathomable as the ocean itself, with mottled blue lips, eyelashes laced with droplets of brine and damp hair that twists in limp rivulets down her back. When the curling wind brushes that seaweed hair to the side, it reveals that she is dotted from the very top with barnacles where there ought to be a spine.
ii.
Far away from the ragged shoreline, wounded by the ceaseless caress of the sea from every side, there stands a lonely wave-washed lighthouse that reaches into the sky and far across the ominous, writhing water. Once, it was a sentinel; a keeper of light shielding the land-dwelling world from its deep-sea counterparts. Even unspeakable beasts, the most terrible of guardians, that would take on writhing, slick-skinned forms and emerge from the ocean's rough, crevassed skin dared not pass.
Its lantern room now lies abandoned, lenses cracked and encrusted with the consequence of years of neglect; the clockwork mechanisms beneath long corroded, stricken stiff and useless by the cruel breath of the sea breeze. The lighthouse had been crumbling away into the sea brick-by-brick, forlorn and without any purpose until she gave it one. This is why she adores it so. They co-exist rather comfortably together, liquid and stone.
iii.
She had loved some of them, those sailors, even before she had lured them into her—especially those with the ocean overflowing inside their heart valves and pumping through arteries, infusing their bodies with coral and salt; rolling waves reflected within their wide, glassy eyes. They call her an angel while she draws them in with a song and pretty promises, unsuspecting of danger until it's far too late.
(She takes them for her own.)
iv.
There is no blood rushing through her veins, only the might of water breaking against the coast. She was born of the ocean, and to it she shall always belong. The lighthouse is her home, though those fearsome creatures of the deep welcome her to them as an old friend—the oldest. It is her duty to drape Dead Man's Fingers over rocks, and paint far-flung coral with all the colours of the early evening sky; creating a soft sundown display to stretch across the underwater horizon, mirroring that which hangs in the sky high above.
As she must coax life into her briny world, she must control it.
v.
For many, the last thing they ever see before the ocean rises above their eyelids and pulls them beneath, consuming them entirely, is that lighthouse. With every rush of the ebbing tide, the deep red of its white patterned exterior fades further, transforming it from a beacon and a bringer of light into a skeleton; a darkened and eerie omen.
It is a warning for the wise and an invitation to the reckless, the naïve, those who allow petty desires to cloud their better judgement. She smiles, a movement as fluid as ripples on a calming water's surface, and muses over the fact that, somehow, there are always so many to choose from.
vi.
Thick glass storm panes that once encircled the lantern room are no longer present and as she sits at the lighthouse's very top, wind begins to swirl around her body, brutal and cold in all of its ferocious might. She waits and watches for whomever the waves will bring as her next fleeting love. It has to be soon. Her hair billows around her head, almost dry, and she wets her cracking blue lips.
She can see a ship on the horizon.
Literature
softened
the sky whispers,
ribbons of crystalline quiet,
same shade as the angel dust
you shivered every time we were
alone.
in the darkness, we were
sorry birds searching for
open dawns. you, the
swan, me, the
raven,
black as night and
just as hopeful.
and there were poems
written in your skin, universes
blooming in your hands; your eyes
were a December sunrise saving me
from any sleep.
I’ve decided that
people are a composition of
all their greatest memories—and you,
you were always the most
beautiful piece of
me.
Literature
crystallophone
there is a punchcard sin
like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.
Engine,
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
'U.S.A.,
freedom.'
such a beautiful brain:
what
what girl
runs on gasoline?
have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
darling,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
successfully,
or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
ca
Literature
ambivalence
it seems that I have lost
my senses,
dripping corduroy blue:
a glass of condescension
and I'll deny everything you've
said.
somewhere between the pastry paint
and the religious
beads of sweat
from your lips to your navel
I've trapped myself
in a cage I lost the keys to.
this is where insanity begins:
too much attention
wasted on the wallpaper
and hours spent meeting anything
but your eyes.
as i'm cradled in the circulation
within alcoholic corks
and blue headlights
your voice tapping at my senses,
your lips replacing mine.
the secret is that I cannot do enough screaming
to drown you out
and I can't be quiet enough
to
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The Ocean takes her prey,
(beware).
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Edit:
A mildly reworked update for class. c:
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Featured:
Here by =DailyLitDeviations
Here by `dreamsinstatic
Here by *imaginative-lioness
Here by =hazeltown
Thank you so much!
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Comments43
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I believe enough has been said about this piece. I'll just add my enjoyment. 