It never stops spinning

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When my day begins and sleep still holds me captive,
When the days are shorter than my lists,
When skies hold a meloncholic promise of grey,
When sun shines but never reaches,
When sun burns but never warms
When sun hides from summer storms
When sun smiles lonesome between silver tears
When sun smiles at beach days in the hazy rain,
When sun smiles in sarcasm

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words

Caught in the gnarled teeth of my terrors

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Caught between two planes of existence,
slumbers promise a far of lie,
lost within the realms of my dreams
all fingers, eyes, smiles and presence,
held captive within your essence
as spectres draw me from my sleep
fingers cold dragging, pulling
gasping as touch becomes real
and I am awake, in the darkness
of eternity,
caught between the two planes of existence,
again and again and again
you are there, waiting for me to dream….
again and again and again
they are there waiting to pull me from my love.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image found on Pinterest

The silent mist calls me home…

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I have a deep yearning
within me
for solitude
silence,
for the
swaying grass,
and whistling leaves
for rolling hills
endless skies of blue
and the rising
giggle of the days
sun spilling across
lush green grass
just beyond
the railroad
and her one
a week station
that sits patiently
without sound,
yearning for the
hustle and buzzle of life.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found on Pinterest

Mercury encrusted stutter

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Between the seconds,
minutes and hours
times kinetic swing
slows to a
snails pace at twilight,
it is then I know
with a blind man’s
certainty that
I am fallen like
Alice, tumbling
for her fantasies
It’s deep within
my sacral
yet deeper in my soul
I tried to dust you off
smooth away your
scent but only
managed to submerge
myself further
in your essence
Have I told you
of the synchroniscities?
No, of course I haven’t.
The problem with equality
is the dispersal of power,
I’m afraid I wouldn’t
be so pretty with my
soul crushed into
fine powder blowing
in times wind
to desolate islands
of despair.
Isn’t that always
the problem when
you discover you care?
Intrigue gages the
tip toeing of my
splintered thoughts
across creaky floorboards
I am the wisp,
the wisp of chaos,
calm, energy, need and
perhaps love,
I was always afraid
you’d know what to do…
now isn’t that the truth.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Mostly they were incoherent slugs

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Most days I didn’t care,
would get down on the
floor with her, stamp
my feet, scream my woes
and mimic bitter tears of
unfairness. I’d laugh at
passerbys, smile wide
and loud at their stares.

I pitied them,
so blind by their ego
of judgement, they
couldn’t see for shit,
they were the problem,
the catalyst, such hate
in their eager hearts…
still, mostly I ignored
them…

…but some days
I was all soul and
less warrior, tears
burning, fear
enveloping, then
snippets of hope
in a strangers eyes,
Knowing nods that
needed no words,
and those gentle,
featherlight fingers
that broke through
my tangled aura for
a millisecond…
… unassuming
all knowing,
empathy,
one soul to another
in those moments
upon the stage
with an ugly audience
of egos.

A simple touch,
that said so much.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found on pinterest
#autism #spd #ASD #Unity

He, My Love, My Soul, My Home.

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He is home, an island shroud in silence,
cloaked from prying eyes and dying hearts
where fairies dance in natural semblance
beneath Jasmine petals of endless stars.

The oceans crystal kiss and gentle ebb
lovers fragrant melody caressing
opal rays on my moonlit sands ahead,
and silken leaves forever confessing

He is the Wren, the Robin and the owl,
the morning sly fox and twilight whispers
He is the bear, the storm, the dark eyed growl
He is the lake that silently glitters

Painted skies of burnt peach and navy blue
loves embers on the evening rose breeze
a Velvet blanket of stars, warm and true
A percussion, symphony through green leaves.

He is ancient relics and crumbled life
Druid memories seeped in evergreen moss
Spectres of the days of zeus’s sharp knife,
a healing home to nurture my souls loss

Rustic essence of Pan and dancing nymphs,
Heather swaying between crags singing grass
Arcadia in distant dreams and links
Xanadu, I am home, my love, at last.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words
He-is the personification of xanadu