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

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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