Coldness has crept beneath my skin
sleep has gone and been
again as darkness swarms the night
as spectres steal the light.
And as I lay beneath the all seeing artexed dream catcher ceiling.
I ask silently for stolen shreds,
For silken threads,
For stories once read.
Whispered tales of classic lines
for a single moment in time.
A single moment outside of my mind
in surrealist movement a juxtaposed realisation of words into images. The creation of a picture book, flip pages with worn out edges. A page as safe as any other page where my thoughts can lay bare to the naked truth of self, rather than hidden on an old and dusty shelf.
Karen Hayward ©2016