Violence
Violence comes in many shades. It saunters between the dim shadows of a turbid mind. Expressing itself in a manner best suited to the vessel of it's circumstance. In the gruff and muscular, it may play out as a raised fist. In the slight and sly, the malice leeches it's poison between the cracks of subtle device. Emotive violence, that sears the heart with wounds the years never mend, deflated ego's, the crushed confidences of intimate betrayals, are as deeply violent as any brute did bare a hand. The wounds and scars unseen, bare testament, to the mien of malicious intent...
Violence is a state of mind. A disposition of soul, a seeking to control that which has born it's greatest fear in the souls of those both far and near. It knows not sex, nor colour, creed nor faith, only the unparalleled desire to control and overwhelm the object of it's greatest fear, shattered in the mirror, reflected shadows of a broken soul. To break bones, hearts, souls and minds, that in doing so, the shattered reflection of that which lays behind the eyes of each offender, be meliorated, but for a moment. The shattered mirror, cast out in a shout, an explosion of emotion, the vented chalice broken. Violence is the mirror cracked, an extract, a tincture of tears, born from out the fear of all those broken years.
© Richard Michael Parker 2013
