A step, a stumble, a slip away from Davy Jone's Locker.

A threatening scarlet whips away from her,

Gales clutch at her dress, trying to drag her into the depths of the unknown.

Embedded into her ensemble, aqua clambers over plum,

Colors fighting to represent an infallible Empress.

Heavens melt into sea, bending to it's will as if nothing more than cheap plastic.

The barren earth beneath her hardly stands the onslaught of waves,

The jet ground cannot hold a candle to her challenging glare.

I will not be heaved into your darkness

Her wild mane whips away from her,

the only yielding part of her.

She's mocha statue, vibrant against the cobalt surrounding her.

Against the breeze, the fabric remains obediently in her steadfast pinch,

the lightest of touches necessary for anything to bow to her.

Seamen will recount tales of the ocean,

of her unpredictableness,

of her starving waves,

of her slaying winds,

but the true menace lays within the girl seaside.

She endures,

Returning more fire than the sea can take.

She remains,

A brewer of storms.