To write is to breathe. The life within me that drives my essence through each crunching day deep into the realms of humanity. I am but the words I spill I am but never the thoughts I kill.
But true to form. To explore through eyes of sense and feel through words of decorum self discovery, when the shadows come a calling and twilight shrouds us from our dreams.
An imposter I make false promises to the gods that I shall write of travesties told with my ink the blood of a thousand truths my page the parchment of darkness that haunts our days and I am but an imposter.
I can speak of no truths. My tongue is tied my hands bound down my ink run dry my parchment burns in flames of reality and every word I place upon the page of fury is erased. Erased.
I am not worthy to be called a poet I am a traitor to the ancient calling, I can weave but words upon a page and create beauty that lacks soul. I can merge syntax with dialect and make voice appear from behind the mask.
I am condemned in dark streets of ego my voice curbed and this posion kills me. Take a bite of my flesh and feel the slow torture of death you deserve it your horned.maker awaits your return, please tell him again, he cannot have my soul.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)