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Bre Marie Dec Revenge is on my mind. Running a knife deep through your spine. Father I hope you know I've lost my mind. If the needles don't get to you in time. I'll be taking your life along with mine. Pagan Paul Aug Judderwitch The Beginning. The morning mist dissipated as the ships keel ploughed a furrow through the Great Green of the Aegean, leaving far behind the magick isle. Vigilantos stood at the prow, marvelling at the accompanying dolphins, curious and playful, schooling with purpose to the ocean. Ahead, waiting, a grand tour.

Of Sumer, Abyssinia and desert lands, to glean hidden knowledge, regain the mysteries of the ancients, read the Necronomicon and old scripts from a time when power crackled, and the storms of the gods belittled the existence of mankind. The twilight Moon peeps from behind the brazen grey cloud. And she weaves hap-hazard through the crushes of the crowd. A high-born daughter of the desert, a vision of beauty from the sand. With silks and satin and perfume richly obtained from foreign lands.

Through the colourful bazaar she threads with occasional glances thrown at stalls, priestess jewels sparkle in the night, its her Name the sirocco calls. Cobalt blue water, an illusion of light where the sun slides through the meniscus, and the harbour of Tyre was alive. The bustling of boats around ships at anchor, snatching glimpses of a turquoise sky and the quay throbbing with the pulse of music. It would be another 3 thousand years before Rome was even a trading post on the Tiber, let alone an empire conquering the east, or building hippodromes and columned avenues.

Vigilantos drank in the atmosphere, his magicians instincts bristling, noting all. Meandering through the narrow streets, loosely following direction, getting lost. Seeking his retinue and camels, ready to start, across the desert to Ninevah on the Tigris. To speak to tribes, pray with the priests of Ur. To find the secrets of mysteries, and treasure, reaping the knowledge of the Old Gods awe, amongst the shifting dunes of history.

Vivid colours of silks and dyes adorn the tents of cloth and stick. The summer sun beats down lazy, heat as oppressive as mist is thick. Her charms and delights are hidden, with misery and pain, the last week spent. The dark, the quiet, the inane chatter, deep within the women's red tent. Free from the curse, her moon-cycle complete, she wanders with mood sombre and slow. A powerful man from a western place will arrive at the camp as the sun sinks low.

He had seen her in the main bazaar and decided to stake his claim. Whilst confined away, behind her back, her father had bartered for riches and fame. His travels around those beautiful lands had yielded books of law and scripts. He had heard the oral traditions of elders and gazed in wonder at the Moon's eclipse.

Then he had seen the greatest treasure wending her way through crowded markets. With tact and guile he discovered her Name, and vowed to grace her father's carpets. The desert folk live a simple life but far from simple are they. Sharp of tongue and quick of wit, erudite in a most unusual way. The father was the elected leader, King of the tribe that he now led. Vigilantos had bargained hard to purchase the girl for his marital bed. The sun sinks, falling from the sky in the eve. Spectacular reds and orange colliding with the dunes. The azure twilight sky lit and sprinkled with stars, and the tribal camp fills with laughter and tunes.

The sudden hush of the assembled camp echoed strange, deep into the desert night. His eyes beheld her most beautiful form, half in the shadow, half in the light.

Poetry Instead of a Card - Thirteen Poems About Revenge

For her families benefit he had traded, agreed bargains, and come to claim his right. Head bowed in fake submission she boldly makes her cold admission. Black and red, darkness and rage descend upon his fevered mind. Humiliated, spurned by a maiden fair, and pride will not be left behind. A curse. But something made Vigilantos start, a pang of something from his dead heart. With such feelings he could not contend, so a caveat, for the curse to amend.

Leaving far behind the desert he turns his face to the sky. The ships keel ploughs a furrow as the evening mist draws nigh. And now she prowls the dark night, her Name lost in the sands of time. Seeking out the mortal sinners and punishing their evil with her crimes.

Prequel to The Judderwitch poem posted in April.

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    Sorry for stealing your title, rose. Sara Kellie Jul Look what they've done, torn you apart. In the name of fun, some kind of black art. I'd been thrown into the lake, arms and legs tied.

    I sunk to the bottom, they thought I had died. Out of the depths I arose wearing a beautiful dress. Some kind of new magic, like a good witch. A white art. I don't seek revenge for I have a pure heart. It's now they'll see that they could never be someone like me. Poetry by Kaydee.

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    The more times you're hurt, the less likely you will retaliate in the same way. Understand the serenity that comes with this, the more immoveable you will become. Covered in blood, bruises, fractures and breaks but. Skaidrum Jul Of the haiku series xix. Just Me Jul Offender's Beware.

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    5. Normal has no home with me. Rage is a wonderful mess. Shake my hand Bend around my mind. Bend all you can. Sick is what I am. Contagious is what I'm not, but you will flee all the same. Satisfaction to my day. Stay away so I don't have to try to explain.

      Session Expiration Warning

      Stay away PTSD, and a sprinkle of Rage Bipolar me will tarnish your day. You will never understand my fears. You will never understand the me that isn't me Paint me Not a Victim for you are mine! I'm ice cold and brilliant in my revenge. I am easy on the eyes I'm a wonderful disguise! I'll fight with my word's, even though I can't sleep. You can be the victim of you! Karma and God will find you! But first you will see me. My other me Such things that I think What you have done to me is nothing compared to my friend Beelzebub!