“Coriolis”

I wrote something today, dear galleons. A companion piece to Uisge Beatha. Enjoy.

***

Her hips are dunes curved by the wind. ~Frank Herbert

The heat is blazing bold patterns across the dusky ergs
Tracing archaic symbols on the naked earth, burning memories
Into the delicate grains spilling themselves across the land’s expanse
Spun into whorls and coils by the rustling gasps of the wind

Hot breath
[whispering]
Rivulets of salt
[dripping]

The sands shift, arching upward into shuddering dunes tossing
Wildly
Recklessly
Winds heaving against the taut curves
Sand trickling down the sides
The groaning of the air sliding
Sinuously along the edges of the world
Dipping beneath the surface
To set fire to the wastelands
Burning
Writhing
Like a phoenix consumed by the flames

Stillness

A gentle caress of the breeze, of the voice
Low and ragged after the cataclysm
Lips forming syllables of a language long since lost
As muscles relax, tapering and sliding slowly
Into a complacent slack, still trembling
With the explosive force of creation

And in the shadows
A bird begins to sing
The remnants of heat still
Smoldering as the sun begins to set

Her hips are dunes curved by the wind. ~Frank Herbert

The heat is blazing bold patterns across the dusky ergs
Tracing archaic symbols on the naked earth, burning memories
Into the delicate grains spilling themselves across the land’s expanse
Spun into whorls and coils by the rustling gasps of the wind

Hot breath
[whispering]
Rivulets of salt
[dripping]

The sands shift, arching upward into shuddering dunes tossing
Wildly
Recklessly
Winds heaving against the taut curves
Sand trickling down the sides
The groaning of the air sliding
Sinuously along the edges of the world
Dipping beneath the surface
To set fire to the wastelands
Burning
Writhing
Like a phoenix consumed by the flames

Stillness

A gentle caress of the breeze, of the voice
Low and ragged after the cataclysm
Lips forming syllables of a language long since lost
As muscles relax, tapering and sliding slowly
Into a complacent slack, still trembling
With the explosive force of creation

And in the shadow
A bird begins to sing
The remnants of heat still
Smoldering as the sun begins to setHer hips are dunes curved by the wind. ~Frank Herbert

The heat is blazing bold patterns across the dusky ergs
Tracing archaic symbols on the naked earth, burning memories
Into the delicate grains spilling themselves across the land’s expanse
Spun into whorls and coils by the rustling gasps of the wind

Hot breath
[whispering]
Rivulets of salt
[dripping]

The sands shift, arching upward into shuddering dunes tossing
Wildly
Recklessly
Winds heaving against the taut curves
Sand trickling down the sides
The groaning of the air sliding
Sinuously along the edges of the world
Dipping beneath the surface
To set fire to the wastelands
Burning
Writhing
Like a phoenix consumed by the flames

Stillness

A gentle caress of the breeze, of the voice
Low and ragged after the cataclysm
Lips forming syllables of a language long since lost
As muscles relax, tapering and sliding slowly
Into a complacent slack, still trembling
With the explosive force of creation

And in the shadow
A bird begins to sing
The remnants of heat still
Smoldering as the sun begins to set

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