Stones Thrown

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The minute the stone was thrown a change in the flow created a chain reaction unto a world that became devastated into a fury of regret. The pain that grew deep within his veins and  became a turning point for she was no longer slayed. One moment,one ripple, one slip became her last as she drowned into the depths of anguish. Her tormented soul was forsaken, for even god turned away during this lapse of time as if the darkness embraced what was left to save.  Love is a stone thrown into the flow that can create ripples that forge the pain within ones veins. The beast lays silent and as god opened up his eye for the universe cried in pain as her heart became the last stone thrown into an empty pit of shame.

Karen S-K
Copyright 2016
All rights reserved

 

 

 

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The Coveted Temptress

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The mistress stood there with her smitten smile and her red stained dress with sin and hopeless desire.

The mistress lost all she had for all she knew was the thirst to take what others have had.

A lover, a thief, a liar, a mistress filled with hopeless desire.

For behind her smitten smile laid a fractured shell that was her temple that many coveted.

As she was the temptress, the mistress, the sad little dove with mangled wings.

She stood there alone, yet surrounded by many.

Her thoughts raced, her body quivered and what was left was the shadow of a sad little girl.

The sad little dove wore her little red dress that was once so beautiful.

She had so much love,hope and desire.

Her heart betrayed her as her life became the story of the other woman.

She became the unlovable, chaotic fractured sad little mistress coveted by many but she was always alone.

Karen S-K

Copyright 2015

All Rights Reserved

Sanctuary of Prospect

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The hermit cowered in his sanctuary of prospect.

He squirmed through the dense fog as the darken dew landed so gently around his tender neck.

The essence of dirt left traces below is battered feet.

For his sanctuary left him distant of the world of chaos that peeked through the narrow entrance of his peace.

The hermit hunched over with his hands full of filth as he brought his hands to his frail chest.

His skin was dull and his eyes were grey to any light.

He felt the palpitation of his heart slowly beating as if it were a pendulum tuning his unsteady beats of his life.

He spoke in tongues and his sanctuary spoke back.

He was a victim of his circumstance, a fate he endured.

For he once was a magnetic gallant man filled with prospect of the life he once knew.

For his intention became clear. He was a hermit by choice and his sanctuary was the world of chaos he dreamed.

For his mind was strong but the the chaos quelled and condemned him within.

His vessel became his mind and his sanctuary engulfed him.

Karen S-K

Copyright 2015

All rights reserved

Indentured Servitude

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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.

Karen S-K
Copyright 2015
All rights reserved

Connivance Manipulation

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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.

Karen S-K
Copyright 2015
All rights reserved

Audacious Anarchist

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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.

Karen S-K
Copyright 2015
All rights reserved

Indifferent Apathy

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Indifferent Apathy waited for the possibilities of what could be. He sat there waiting again for those moments that he could barely despair and believe. Indifferent Apathy walked along the narrowed ledge, losing his balance, his focus, losing his merry way again. He began a path that reached a sudden wall for the narrowed path gave in and the concrete ledge began to fall. The wall stood so still so tall, higher than the clouds that floated above the wall. Oh, how he seemed to be losing it all, oh, how his endearment yearned to be. He stood there wondering as he looked up to the endless sky, will there ever be lovely maiden revealing his love and opening his eyes to a new light. For he knew how Indifferent Apathetic he was, so callous, so blue, but his indifference became compassion and his apathy turned to warmth when he opened his eyes realizing she was standing there before him this whole time.

“and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you”   – E.E. Cummings

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Ophelia Lying in the Meadow, 1889 J.W. Waterhouse

Copyright 2014
Karen SK
All rights reserved