Islands in the shape of a spiral,
bats in the trees reluctant
to fly in the daytime.
The water dark blue and angry
at this land sprouting up
out of magma bursting forth
from the mantle.
She is at the center of it
laying on the beach
her naval a pocket for a red jewel.
Her wet legs covered in sand, and
her hair the same as tangled seaweed,
golden even in its dampness.
Cephalopods of every size slide themselves
out of the depths into her world,
and wrap their tentacles around her limbs.
Their flesh built out of restless tongues
and as she comes the waves
drown all the sleeping wings
above her.
Teleporting Typewriter 