Indentured Servitude

Standard

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

Advertisements

Sorry, I’m not Sorry

Standard

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.

Karen S-K
Copyright 2014
All rights reserved