Drowning in my hair. 


There is a silence before rain 

falls hissing through atoms, 

empty, threatening, soldiers 

of nature crashing into life. 

But what of the blood that spills? 

I grasp at the lose threads 

of my soul as it splits with 

each drum a blunt knife 

tearing hearts chambers. 

I count in my

mind how many foot steps, 

one for each sting of thunders drop. 

One hundred? Two hundred? 

I estimate five hundred. 

Five hundred shards of my soul 

scattered through petrichor. 

The earthly scent is a blessing

and a curse defined in your heart. 

Your heart. . .but does it beat now 

rapid screams of need? There 

goes another shard, sharp and

glossed in maternal lubricant. 

If only I were your belief. A hero 

powered by the Gods, mutated 

chemically, born to other planets. . .

I could slow the rain and calm 

the orchestra of blood playing 

in your ears. I could transmit 

messages across the surface 

water, manipulate cloud and 

envelope you in protective fluff. 

My wings would stretch the 

earth in search of you,  my

soul would scour the universe

as my spirit caught claps of

thunder between the falling

droplets of rain.
Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words 

 

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