literature

ocean angel

Deviation Actions

Published: May 2, 2012

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Literature Text

_{She's a dancer; you can tell by the way she stands,
with her chin held high, slim shoulders thrown back.
You can see it in the way she runs; on the balls of her feet,
light as a dandelion seed, ready to fly far, far away.

She ties her hair back in a tight little knot at the nape
of her neck, but three little tendrils always manage
to escape and frame the delicate frame of her face.

The back of her leotard is covered in sand;
her leggings are pulled up to her knees.
She follows the coastline as though it is the long path home,
swaying with each swell and ebb of the tide.

Gravity is nothing and everything to her. She pauses
to examine the horizon for secrets, and is bathed
in golden light. Laughing, she twirls; faster, faster, and
faster still, until even the sun becomes dizzy and falls out
of orbit, and the moon is afraid to take its place.

Somewhere, on another planet, perhaps, a voice calls to her.
She stops spinning, but does not fall, and her eyes
shame the stars when she smiles. I turn, seek the caller,
but there is no one. Looking back, she is already gone.

I suppose that is how angels go.}

_{I don't know what fucking category this goes under.
Re-reading is awful. Apparently I was trying to see how many cluster fucked cliches I could fit into one ball of fuckery.
I like the word fuck tonight.
Poetry? Prose? Prosetry? I don't know what the fuck this is. I wrote it as prose but it looks better as a poem but it doesn't sound like either and fuck writing. Fuck life. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.}