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Literature
Fickle: Chapter Six.
Fickle.
Chapter Six:
Whispers coursed through the crowds in the hall; murmurs by the musicians, who stood near a couple dressed as water nymphs, talking to a collection of women dressed in bright colours with flowers decorating their towering powdered hair. Gentlemen with sinister masks and dashing smiles wooed women asking them to dance and feeding them delicacies from the tables; all shrouded in gentle candle light from candelabras and the elegant, gold chandeliers.
Gossip swept around with those dancers and rippled across the heads of hordes of people, and it was all about the King's English concubine. Rumour had it that she was darkly beautiful, she'd bewitched him with her wiles and her tragic past. She'd enthralled him with her magic, her enchantments, after all how else could an English girl, tainted such as she was, have escaped the punishment, death, that she was due and captured the heart of the French King? It had to be witchcraft. Was she a spy? Was she sent by her E
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Literature
The Clock in the Corner still at Thirty Two Min...
The Clock in the Corner still at Thirty Two Minutes Past Nine.
The clock ticks slowly,
Seconds, minutes, hours pass,
Become days, weeks, months,
And finally years.
Numerous are gone,
And nothing's changed:
In that little locked box,
The flesh behind ribs,
That little closed locket.
Things don't change, fast,
Because,
Knowledge is power,
And power is the key,
But time will break down the walls.
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Literature
Restoration.
Restoration.
The ache runs down,
Like rivers, dangling ribbons, columns,
Down the spine, halfway,
Stopping at the heart,
All the way from the mind.
Turmoil, churns in the stomach,
A battalion of butterflies,
Doing untold damage.
Tingles, sharp, pins and needles,
Torment her where she lays, still,
Coiled like a snake, waiting to attack,
The revenge.
All in good time, time to mend,
Time to build up walls.
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Literature
Progress.
Progress.
The words appear on the screen,
As I think them,
Appear on paper,
As I muse over them.
Characters,
All individual,
And essential.
All of them real,
But not real:
Illusion, shapes,
Squiggles on pages.
All mine to do with what I please.
This isn't a love poem,
But it is.
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Literature
Midnight.
Midnight.
A river falls to endless pools of mystery,
Swirling at my feet.
Water casting shadows dancing on the ground,
Like a butterfly in a spring breeze.
Beneath the pulsing stars,
Hearts drum out life.
A pen scrawls across the page,
Wet ink and dry paper.
Scratching out words, meanings,
A message cut into the world, to scar.
To make persons wishes bleed,
Into promises and vows.
All to be broken in a split second,
Or held for all of eternity.
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Literature
Dancing in the Rain.
Dancing in the Rain.
Down it comes,
In Fragile droplets,
Breaking on impact.
Hard.
A tinkle against the window,
The glass,
An innocent smile,
Reflected back,
And an innocent pleasure.
Puddles, splashing, wellies.
Music in our heads,
The beat of the rain.
A perfect symphony,
Perfect for our happy feet.
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Literature
Refresh.
Refresh.
I let them fall off me,
Clothes, fears, even dream,
Hit the floor,
Soft crumpling, dull thuds, and crashes.
Then I sink myself,
Fall among them in a bedraggled heap,
Of limbs, and flesh and blood and bones.
There I ponder,
Electric pulses in grey matter,
Goosebumps crawl,
Heart pounds and beats.
Alone in the mess,
It's not broken,
It's just restyling, realigning, reorganising.
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Literature
It.
It.
It takes a while to realise,
Like the ticking of a clock.
It's happening,
And you don't even notice.
It's determined,
Like it's always going to win.
It's all moving,
And you do nothing to try to stop it.
It's a slow process,
Like it almost wants to be gentle.
It's unstoppable,
And you don't even look sad.
It's over,
And you just let it go.
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Literature
Autumn.
Autumn.
The tree that is slowly dies,
To let light in where others hide,
Through greens and reds and yellows and browns,
The light streams through upon the ground,
But as winter crawls across the mud,
The light shines on bare ground not flowers.
Oh the irony,
As the light dances freely on crystal frost,
Wasted.
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Literature
Precious Things.
Precious Things.
She sits under the window looking up,
Just like the child that she used to be.
She watches the clouds scuffle with the blue,
But the battle only one; a moment in a story,
And the war is already over.
The outcome as it was always going to be,
The time it took was the only true question.
The rest, though unanswered, are unnecessary.
Ignorance is bliss and the girl is a convert,
With demons of doubt,
But the clouds will fade away.
The sun shine,
The snow and ice melt,
Form streams and rivers,
Pleasant to senses.
What's a tumble in the winter,
On snow that looked like sparkling rose cut diamonds,
But was more like broken glass,
Thirsty for young blood,
And innocent vulnerable hopes.
What's another dead dreamer?
When hundreds more move through the ranks,
Day on day on day,
New prey, target, games.
What material world we live in?
Why fix something when it can be replaced?
Guess the new heart shop's not on my high street.
Fresh eyes change perspective,
And memories blu
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Literature
A Mind's Wander.
A Mind's Wander.
I can smell the pines,
The trees, that scent,
The scent of smiles.
I remember,
Cast away the shadows of the present,
To drift through those old trees again,
With the laughter filling the air,
The sounds of running feet,
And playful shouts.
The sand and the pine needles make my footing slippy,
But that's all part of the thrill,
The salty smell of the sea mingles,
Drifts over the dunes, along the beach,
And diffuses through the woods,
To me.
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Literature
The Betrayal.
The Betrayal.
I remember,
The poppy petals, four, lay discarded,
Lost on the ground,
The bloody battle field of life.
Dead and dying soldiers,
Left to the whispers of time,
Histories unnamed heroes.
Remembered in stone,
But not in minds,
Just numbers equalling statistics,
Dark facts in a grim world,
That we pretend glitters like gold.
:iconEvery-Cloud:Every-Cloud
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Literature
Conflict.
Conflict.
Encounters,
Moments,
Lost in the sands of time,
And forgetful minds.
Mistakes,
Tragic misdemeanours,
Broken hearts,
Twisted minds,
Fracturing trust,
Destroying faith.
And they say chivalry is dead.
It's not a surprise,
Conflict,
Independence and hopeless romanticism,
A bitter fight to the death,
In a modern age of uncertainty.
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Literature
Fickle: Chapter Five.
Fickle.
Chapter Five.
I could hear cries of outrage as I was rushed away from the Hall of Mirrors; the Duke gripped my arm so tight his fingers overlapped his thumb and near dragged me back to my chambers. I scraped my toes on the tiled floor and muttered small curses; he didn't slow down.
The door of my rooms slammed shut, and we slumped on to the bench. Mary, bless her heart, brought me smelling salts and poured both me and the Duke a cup of tea.
"Was that really necessary? You ran like you were going to get lynched!" I words came out in bursts as my lungs drew in much needed air.
"Lynched? I do not understand that word." He turned to face me, his eyebrows casting shadows over his pale blue eyes.
"Hung."
"Ah, yes it was necessary, because you could have been." He seemed a little taken aback by my frank and blunt reply.
"Why?" I was puzzled to why, what had I done since my arrival to create such a reaction to my receiving of a title.
"Because the King is mad."
"Mad? Are you sur
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Literature
Fickle: Chapter Four.
Fickle
Chapter Four.
After receiving an almost icy glare from the Kings most loyal and ardent attendant at dinner the evening of the incident, I suffered no further rebuke from my tiff with the King, for this I was thankful. Furthermore my relationship with Mary was improving in leaps and bounds, and I was quickly thinking of her not as my maid, but as my friend and confidante. This led to my chambers enjoying a sense of relative calmness; idyllic calmness in regards to the rest of the palace. Outside my chambers was a riot of activity, excessive expenditure and frivolous French flamboyancy, but such was the way of the court here. My chambers seemed to be the eye of the storm as everyone frantically prepared for the ball.
I pondered the world outside of the Versailles estate. For my own safety, as I was regularly assured, I was not allowed off the estate; I could wander the corridors and the gardens, but not outside the safety of the walls and hedges. I was kept in most luxuriou
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Literature
The Ticking of the Clock.
The Ticking of the Clock.
Oh how strange these poignant memories,
Of days and weeks and years we have lived,
How dreams and hopes and wants evolve,
Then settle like the winters snow.
A child celebrates the birthday of another turning ten,
And wonders how, in all her years,
She is yet to turn a decade old,
To her young mind she had lived forever.
She watched through a camera lens upon her Nan's knee,
Her new born Brother in her Mother's arms,
Confused to how the devise works, but in wonderment all the same,
Waiting for him to grow so he can sit with her at the dinner table.
A birthday cake, a piggy with a curly whirly tail,
A Victoria sponge in a tent of burgundy canvas,
Enjoying the moment with those she loves and takes for granted,
Never wanting, never thinking that that moment will ever end.
Picking up the first of the magical seven that would define her childhood,
And thinking that it was just that little too difficult,
But in a year or two or three it will have been read man
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JACAC Featured By Owner Apr 29, 2013
t h a n k . y o u . s o . m u c h . =)
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JACAC Featured By Owner Apr 9, 2013
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JACAC Featured By Owner Mar 20, 2013
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JACAC Featured By Owner Feb 19, 2013
y e s . i t ' s . m e . a g a i n . :rose:s
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JACAC Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2013
n e w . f a v e s . :w00t:
h a p p y . Valentine :hug:
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JACAC Featured By Owner Feb 8, 2013
:flowerpot:
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overira Featured By Owner Feb 1, 2013  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
thanks for the favorite :)
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Every-Cloud Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2013  Student General Artist
You're Welcome
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JACAC Featured By Owner Jan 22, 2013
i . j u s t . s a w . t h a t . i . a m . i n . a l l . y o u r . p a g e ................ =)=)
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