Descriptive Writing

Dune

     She wasn't the sun, nor was she the ocean; she was an eclipse, noon dying away in the darkness where there could be no dawn. Lonely and withering away, she awaits by herself, drifting slowly from dune to dune. Her skin was rich in replenishment. If to be or not to be pulled out of such serene sorrow, no one could ever be able to guess correctly where she was, what she was doing and the dampening of her heart, as she looked perfectly preserved like a ceramic doll of cascading dignity. Her emerald eyes that reflected every sunset strip of mulberry, and every moon of ivory, like marbles that searched for an unexisting end. Eyes that wandered around like a speck of dust floating in the air. Her unruly hair races the wind that softly whispers to every interstellar night of solitary hymns. She was quite still, as I saw her watch every sunset.

     The smell of the desert is amazing, it is like an earthy sweet smell, dusty and dry with a hint of spice, or sage, a not so very easy to describe the smell. Above the clouds I flew high above the horizon, to get a better glimpse of what seemed like the skies painted with coral. In this glorifying desert, surrounded in a sunset realm of cumulonimbus, the freshly scented breeze brushed me gently as I glided softly like clouds that rolled by on a windy day feeling boundlessly on top of this peaceful, reserved world for the sensation was more therapeutic than ever. Before I had begun to knowingly realise, I merged myself deeper within the clouds. I felt the winds gradually getting harsher and the smell of rain could easily be recognised. There is nothing like the smell of the desert when it rains, especially during the monsoons in the summer. The smell of wet sage combined with the thunder, lightning and pouring rain. The euphoria brought me in.

     I welcomed gravity with open arms, falling at an astounding speed, lusting for life as if I've grown thin for the prey in front of me. Soaring the cold sky in this avalanche of rain, something luminescent like the moon could be seen violently sailing the sea. Pale and reflecting the harmonious thunder in the distance, it lumitated that of the marble stones, in a cave-filled with obscurity. Curiosity aggravated me, in the moment of finding what I didn't know I needed.

     Lying beneath, perhaps, a beautiful sculpture. The face of the sculpture was not one of joy, nor the sort of happiness that brings laughter; but the sort of sadness for the yearning of freedom, the kind that pities itself clear as a bell. It was an expression of the kind of solemness that deep love brings, deaf in its thoughts. Washed out from the rain, awakens the soulful melancholy and the coma of the inner drollery. Beneath the strong, starlit black and the forget-me-not sky, she stands in any weather, greeting perfect days and perfect storms just the same, embroidering a star after the other.

513 words