She weaved a web with her tattered worn clothes, she walked away from the strands that clung unto her woven frayed box. Splinters interlaced her web and punctured more of her garments that tattered onto her horrid webbed wooden box. An unsightly box stood there wrapped around the web underneath the rusty nails that she laid her pretty little head. Fragile, volatile, soft and so used, how could the web entangle her into this web she already once knew. Locked in a box was her indentured servitude as the box was filled with rusty nails and something that couldn’t be true. The box laid cold, musty and diseased with lies for one who dared to venture through the darken box would only come to their own putrid demise. For he could undertake this perilous webbed path as he peered with his helpless eyes. How the web had entangled him into the box barely scraping his fearless hands, gripping the splinters and rusted nails as he clutched onto her strands that she carelessly left behind. There they both rest now under the wooden tattered entangled box. Her indentured servitude remained as she weaved a web with her tattered worn clothes and now the splinters punctured his sad little demise.
Manipulation is the art of man yet, without man the woe only exists as she plays mans game. Manipulation is the holster that displays human form, for manipulation must feel power and the strong be weak. Allowing this power to overcome your strengths allows them to be victorious without blood drawn, only physical pain left unto internal ache. For manipulation lies with the heart of many that want what they can’t obtain thus afflicting their purported power onto the ones that pillaged their fatuous pawns in the art of gain. The very weakness of man can only crack to a certain declination, as the manipulation sees the fragility they bestow on their mortal plane. How it sickens the ones who see beyond this fiendish game. Seeing them convoluted unto this chessboard as they continue to guard their king and queen as they check mate the unguarded knight and use their lamentable queen for their own self gain. How much should be endured to see the manipulations that causes so much pain. One day in a foreseen future as retribution will condemn the very wicked game they played. The reckoning of their weaknesses for manipulation miss judged their next move for their king and queen is captured in the manipulative game for they will see the fragility they bestowed on others as their own reflection of disdain.
An audacious anarchist once stood before those who queried the factualism of their foresight that they all never knew. He clutched his saber so seditiously from his tattered sheath and plunged it deep within his cogitation so that others would see the malcontent depths that engulfs their ways. The perils that laid at bay for he laughed them all away, for all those who stood listened with such intent that his consciousness awakened those that saw the perils that were hidden in plain sight. Those were no longer led by the pack of wolves that left a corpuscles stench. The sheep they once were, now they were real men. An audacious anarchist once stood before the wolves and sheep and all the men stood so full of spirit as the audacious anarchist could finally see a purlieu before them that the foresight never allowed them to see. Now they clutch their sabers and plunge it deep within their own anarchist souls; so now the audacious anarchist could slumber and awaken to find the wolves hidden within the darkness of the trees. The land now belonged to all the men as they will never be the irrational sheep.
His flesh yearned as he laid deep within her breast, so deep, so proud as if he claimed his stake as if he had dominated his greatest conquest. So loud, so new, so beautiful, so luminous that it could blind all that would peer through;the depths that could echo his yearning flesh into millions of stars seeking the blindness of night though his love so sweet yet, so deeply intertwined beneath the delicate soft saturated sheets. His flesh yearned another layer of life that he buried so deep amongst his burrowed pride. So illuminating, so everlasting true for he felt a sense of idolatry and she felt his edacious lovely truth.
For every being, there’s a glimmer of deception instilled within our psyche that can penetrate the obscure walls that we create. We unleash these walls in hopes to grasp that the reality instilled is just an omission of sorts. For every being has a glimmer of vitality that pervades within these obscure walls; for how can we see the deception when it’s the perception of how we encounter it all. The enemies we see, the allies we face, for you see; it’s only the heart wrenching reality that we perceive that becomes our glimmer of fate and our desire of life
Sorry within sorrow that radiates an unprecedented trail of remorse that leaves this mark of disdain. As we speak words that echoes no meaning but only the sounds that portray this image we demonstrate. For words now are just figments of truth and perception. Sorry, I’m not sorry; overwhelmed by the actions displayed, as if it were just a play and your the leading role taking the stage. I’m not sorry for how I feel, I’m not sorry for my conceptual semantics. I’m not sorry for feeling I have to say sorry as the difference is I’m not on stage. Many appear to be living in this spotlight, their own little world as we all try to fit in this world leaving an unprecedented trail of remorse yet again and I’m weary of words now as now we hear what we want to hear and sorrow radiates the perception of the real truth.