I wield Excalibur at twilight spirits.

A deep throb, thumping
within my temples.
Beating. Beating. Beating.
Then the rain, thrashing,
lashing, crashing.

I am reminded of
promises made and
promises broken.
Sat alone in pitch
black shadows

Edging ever closer
White illuminated skies
haunting rolls, deep angry
growls howling screams
plunged into darkness.

I have become my
own saviour, I wield
Excalibur at twilight
spirits, creeping
shadows and thunder.

Silence disturbed
only by cars dispersing
the puddles. There is hope.
Storms pass and skies clear
After all. Suspicion becomes me.

Sleep, the world’s answer
to all problems, eyes
fearful, wild, the lone wolf
or delicate deer, sleep is a
wish not made by my fear.

Rain humming static lullaby
melodic symphony, celestial
skies alit, the deep roar felt
within, scattering to my core.
Alone.
Pitch black.
Reality for sure.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017

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