Vast underworld of lust

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The vast emptiness

of a muddled mind,

fractured beyond

the splintered remnants

of the devil kiss…

…where now are the fireflies

that once had enlightened

my soul to celestial skies.

For all about me lays the

vast wastelands of the underworld,

the river Styx whispers to

me at nights promise as

slumber pulls me under,

I am fallen,

the broken remains of

belief swimming

now in Stygian darkness

 

drowning my sins in lust

suffocating my love in desire

saving myself from the

mundane wishes of

the blind.

 

Karen Hayward ©2018

Graphite 

She was graphite, rough and raw.
She’d erase rough lines of guidance,
use the indents as a reminder of where not to walk,
how not to cry,
when not to break.
She’ll sit up into the wee twilight
Hours curving letters across
nipples pert bud,
gently caressing sensuality,
as the sharpened pencil defines
contours of need,
black lines of repression smeared by charcoal nips and probing tips.
Blurred definitions
tainted revelations
deceitful realisations
Graphite creations… how she pondered
now the way we draw our lines
in pencil, temporary markings
leaving a gentle trail
of destruction across
naked bodies beneath Lunar glows
Wild oats, taken, made and sown
Pick ups and throws…
The allure of graphite, need
erased, redrawn… Redrawn.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words 

The essence of now.

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I forgot
Momentarily.
I forgot to look to the skies
As silver petals fell from the celestial heavens ,
And then I saw, and then I felt,
the angels golden breath upon my brow.
Worn down by words spat from Satan’s mouth,
I wonder is he devil sent?
Again I look up, I look up high,
silver petals falling from celestial skies,
the angels golden breath upon my brow
I feel the presence of the earth,
I feel the essence of now.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

A whisper on golden rays.

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Yonder ethereal skies your essence

sweeps across my soul embracing

my darkest shadows with tender

kisses of devotion. And I am defenseless,

the ancient echo of love sung by the morning

bird tingles across frozen drops of dew.

Spiraled imprint of frost delicately

painted across whimsical dreams thawing

at the warmth of your tongue,

the caress of your lips,

the embrace of your love that

traverses

countless seconds dispersing the atoms

of our existence.

Breaking times barrier,

colliding with celestial storms

reaching now from beyond the realm,

a single flame we burn in the echos

of our infinite universe an eternal

love the expansion of our souls united in

a chaotic flurry of brilliance.

Karen Hayward * ©2017

Image and words.

Soldier of ancient knowing.

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My soul is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue barely filling

the crevices of histories voice echoing through the

lost caves of innocence.

Smashed China, pastel floral’s

lost in the vivid hues of self destruction…I wear my scars

with the whispered honor of shame, the rivets caused

by the dull blades have become storage boxes of rational

thought, irrationally taped together in tears that fall only as

darkness reigns…Even I must stay relatively sane.

And deep within this constellation of thoughts I search

the battle ground for your essence. Praying I will find you

safely jumping across the stepping stones of

my existence, but alas my horizon is clear and yet

I feel you so near. A soldier of love I find you

peeling back torn memories, embracing the deep

etches of self doubt and kissing away the deep echos of

darkness that shroud me from light. My honored Knight

taking arms against this lifelong fight.

My soul…

is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with your love and vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue and your gentle insistent

whispers of encouragement  filling the crevices of histories

voice echoing through the lost caves of my innocence.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image Michael J.Garland. ©2017

When the shadows speak.

Your Dad was right, youre useless, a failure. No wonder your Mum ran of with the shop keeper To escape her good for nothing son

Tim edgily paced around the small cluttered living room. His hands shaking from three days without sleep. His muscles tired and weakened. Taking a long swig of whiskey, he silently begged for the alcohol to invade his body, to comatose him, he begged for sleep, perhaps even death.

Your not a failure. He stole away your Mummy, your childhood. You can still make Daddy proud

The sweet, innocent female voice, reminded Tim, of his Mother.

Pick up the gun, Tim” she whispered to him.

Tim paused in front of a broken mirror. His eyes sunken and bloodshot, skin deathly pale. It had been three days since his Fathers funeral. He tried to sleep, but memories of his fractured childhood stopped him. For seventeen years his Father had controlled his every movement. Had beaten him to within an inch of his life. Had constantly reminded him, that it was his fault ’Mummy’ had left.

Are we doing this, or what

Tim turned to where he had heard the mans voice come from. Looking directly at the armchair, his drunken dad had occupied for so many years, he half cried, half shouted,

I just want to sleep, I want my Mummy”.

No one noticed the anxious, paranoid man walking along Main-street. His hands dug deep into his pockets, as he rubbed the cold metal barrel. Without hesitation, he pulled out the 22 Calibre gun, and pointed it towards the shop keeper.

You stole my Mummy

The shopkeeper looked from Tim to the gun. His shaking hands rose in a peaceful gesture. Tim pressed hard against the trigger, hoping for relief from the voices.

Please, I did it. Let me sleep

It was quite the voices had gone. for now.

Karen Hayward ©2017