Burgundy Skip to main content

Featured post

The Purging of the Great Thorns

The sun was not merely a ball of burning gas to the folk of the Sandleford Warren; it was Frith, the Great Eye, the golden source of all life and the witness to every twitch of a whisker. But on this day, the air felt heavy, tasting of ozone and the cold, sharp scent of worked iron. Fiver, the small, twitching seer of the rabbits, sat atop the Honeycomb, his ears flat against his back. "It’s coming, Hazel", he whispered, his voice trembling like a leaf in a gale. "A great white light. Not the light of Frith that warms the fur, but a light that eats the world. Man has grown too clever. He has stolen the fire from the center of the earth and pointed it at the sky". Hazel looked toward the horizon. He couldn’t see the, "Great Thorns"—the long, silver cylinders Man had hidden in the ground—but he felt the vibration in his paws. The world of men was screaming. They had built machines that could turn the grass to ash and the rivers to steam. They were ready ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Burgundy

In ruby-hued satin, she pirouettes alone,
Her form a silhouette against the tone
Of evening's blush, where shadows softly play,
Amidst the burgundy that wraps her frame at bay.

With every step, the fabric billows wide,
A skirt of old-money elegance inside,
Yet her bare skin glistens like polished stone,
Ethereal, untainted, utterly her own.

Her arms, entwined, create a pose of grace,
A Botticelli vision in a modern space,
As if the nymphs of ancient lore had come,
To dance and twirl, unbound by mortal thumb.

Time stands still in this suspended scene,
Where art and life entwine, a sanguine dream,
Of freedom's fleeting nature and its hold,
On hearts that beat within a living mold.

She is a vision born of color, light,
And the intoxicating thrill of unbridled might,
A fleeting moment preserved in embered thought,
Of a woman bold, in radiance untaught.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular Posts