Ghost like; she dances; an ol’ ballet. Each movement measured, like notes written by Bach. The slow twirl of her French braid unraveling, reflects above the mirror of a violet hughed lake. Locked away under blue veils of ice. With speed, she spins among ashen petals of a nimbus. Gliding along, spurred, she snaps; an arm flinging beads of sweat. Her breath composes its own cloud. Like the white hibiscus of spring; her dress blooms. |
Carson Tidwell(Psst. If on mobile, turn horizontal for better viewing experience)
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