The following is a total work in progress. I have no idea what the finished product will look like.
Rhythmically roaring, smashing the land, demolishing sand castles, tossing swimmers, and tumbling surfboards, its difficult to imagine her as a comet. Congealed in the Oort Cloud, tugged by Jovian mass into an elliptical solar orbit, her vibrant tail streaks as she nears the sun, glittering, brilliant trail.
Eventually, she collides with the third planet, barren planet, rocky runtish insignificance with a caustic methane stew for an atmosphere. Cataclism! were there anyone to care.
What once was dust now is liquid, coating the stony world. But no rest, for no sooner does she discover her new form than she feels a new tug, Dianas tug. Thus is Ocean born.
Does she care that for half a million years, men have loved her, worshipped her, sailed her, begged her, cursed her, drowned in her? Does she care if she consistently inspires fantastically deep if not terribly original thoughts in those who behold her? Does she even notice that she spawned all life, our mother, that her children turned the methane to carbon dioxide and to oxygen and back again?
Or does she calmly await supernova, dreaming that once, long ago, she was a comet?
Rhythmically roaring, smashing the land, demolishing sand castles, tossing swimmers, and tumbling surfboards, its difficult to imagine her as a comet. Congealed in the Oort Cloud, tugged by Jovian mass into an elliptical solar orbit, her vibrant tail streaks as she nears the sun, glittering, brilliant trail.
Eventually, she collides with the third planet, barren planet, rocky runtish insignificance with a caustic methane stew for an atmosphere. Cataclism! were there anyone to care.
What once was dust now is liquid, coating the stony world. But no rest, for no sooner does she discover her new form than she feels a new tug, Dianas tug. Thus is Ocean born.
Does she care that for half a million years, men have loved her, worshipped her, sailed her, begged her, cursed her, drowned in her? Does she care if she consistently inspires fantastically deep if not terribly original thoughts in those who behold her? Does she even notice that she spawned all life, our mother, that her children turned the methane to carbon dioxide and to oxygen and back again?
Or does she calmly await supernova, dreaming that once, long ago, she was a comet?
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"Cataclism! were there anyone to care." - very nice.
thanks for the love on language of the birds.. i'm not so sure i deserve so much praise but appreciate it nonetheless <3