"The Ribbon"
At dawn, the crawling light is met by a long, pink ribbon spiraling nimbly in the wind. Tied about the narrow oak trunk, it plays among the leaves as they stumble one by one from the tree’s protective grasp. The girl had tied it there the night before, as she does every night, and in the morn will seek it once again. She lashes it round the waist of her dress with such innocent beauty, wild and untamed, misting ghostly about her frame. She bucks and frolics atop the balding hill, a tiny ballerina. She dances to each sunset moon, and the world is her music box; a tiny, compact trinket which softy cries the melody of life.
The sun blisters quietly as it raises itself from below the ocean’s crest. An empty breeze lifts the tattered garment feebly from its resting place. The lucent colour has faded grey, its luminosity washed over by sin. At some point, by some chance, the dancing silhouette has become stuck, lodged in time. Her clumsy pirouettes have hidden strange steps, which advance her further into comprehension. What was once a free spirit is now caged by the corruption of age and forced thought. Her back groans, heavy from the burden of others which have been deposited selfishly in her narrow arms. She is stationary as the chaos of a world scorned crashes below her ears, and behind her eyes.
Dust scatters from cracked lenses cradled by gold as a finger presses silently along them. The weary girl rubs her temple in an attempt to ease her worries. Her cheekbones are gaunt and her skin stretches tightly over her bones. She parts her withered lips to loosen a creaking tune deep from her lungs. Its faint melody like broken chimes encircles her, washing her hollow mind. Atop the balding hill, dusk has turned to lasting night, and the oak tree does not cease a violent twisting. A lonely whisper reels beyond the knoll to break upon the object of its lament. Her ears perceive its cry, and with a final heave, the fragile porcelain doll cracks. Forming wrinkles along her brow, she drags her aching eyes to a close, and wonders when again she’ll see a thousand sunset moons.
Enjoy your summer, lovelies; you can never have too long of a childhood.
The sun blisters quietly as it raises itself from below the ocean’s crest. An empty breeze lifts the tattered garment feebly from its resting place. The lucent colour has faded grey, its luminosity washed over by sin. At some point, by some chance, the dancing silhouette has become stuck, lodged in time. Her clumsy pirouettes have hidden strange steps, which advance her further into comprehension. What was once a free spirit is now caged by the corruption of age and forced thought. Her back groans, heavy from the burden of others which have been deposited selfishly in her narrow arms. She is stationary as the chaos of a world scorned crashes below her ears, and behind her eyes.
Dust scatters from cracked lenses cradled by gold as a finger presses silently along them. The weary girl rubs her temple in an attempt to ease her worries. Her cheekbones are gaunt and her skin stretches tightly over her bones. She parts her withered lips to loosen a creaking tune deep from her lungs. Its faint melody like broken chimes encircles her, washing her hollow mind. Atop the balding hill, dusk has turned to lasting night, and the oak tree does not cease a violent twisting. A lonely whisper reels beyond the knoll to break upon the object of its lament. Her ears perceive its cry, and with a final heave, the fragile porcelain doll cracks. Forming wrinkles along her brow, she drags her aching eyes to a close, and wonders when again she’ll see a thousand sunset moons.
Enjoy your summer, lovelies; you can never have too long of a childhood.