Kings and Queens and Devils Spawn

Photo

I feel only pity. Not for you, for those touched by you. Those stained with your toxin breath and acid words. Those that hear the echoes of your banshee scream as dawn calls upon another day and they believe they converse with an angel.

I pity the God’s you pray to, the hyprocracy in your evening cries, the venom in your devil eyes. A descendant of lilith, fallen angels with blackened wings fanning the vile words falling from your spitting tongue.

The serpent coils through your soul, what embers of innocence once lay there now crushed, dispersed on trade winds to a lover and another and any poor fool consumed by your succubus melody and the broken strings of your violin.

But alas I will carry your lesson into tomorrow on the beating wings of spirits love forever at my side. My gain was your want, eternal without condition beyond the physical realm. Spiritual devotion rewarded now in universal bliss…

Your lessons taught me the value
Of true loves blessed kiss. Your game play was preparation, for me to become his. Your poison was the toxin in my climb
as I learned self worth and when my King
took stand to claim his Queen,
I knew I was worthy this time.

Karen Hayward ©2017 Image and words

Purging the ancient voice of truth

chaos

Some people eat to purge
They devour platefuls of
Love, spoonfuls of hate
Bowls spilling with disgust.

Some, drink vodka, gin
Whiskey and bottled beer
Swigging back pain
Sipping on indifference.

For some, it is one more
run, sprinting back the tears
Curling the fears, stretching
the broken fragments clear.

I purge on the dark recesses
of my skull, pull away at
silver threads, devouring
memories made to break.

I lose myself in the silence
of melancholy let it swim
naked through my veins
Tearing me with each stroke.

I let each one fall, tasting the depth
of their essence, let it
ricochet through me in
forgotten undertones of being.

I purge myself through the
Lost memories of my ancient
voice, capturing them within
A moment, then release,
as my lungs breathe and my
eyes smart at the purging.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image found on Pinterest

If the horseman comes a begging…

SS850509 (2)

If tomorrow never happens, 

if the sun forgets to come. 

If darkness reigns the earth,

will you know what you have done?

If coldness sweeps the land, 

and seas swell above a line. 

If the horseman comes a begging, 

will you know how you did shine?

If man stands divided, 

flames of devils lore, 

do you know what side you’ll fall on

and are you really all that sure? 

Karen Hayward ©2016

 

 

The great gargoyle.

Collaboration piece.

img_0678

Ancient whisper, guardian protection,

great wings descend as shadows dance from sight.

Past whispers scrawled upon these walls of history

eternal print of crystallized desire

that hollows in the twilight hour

as my skin yearns once again for your touch.

Selene sings a delicate lullaby

of our passion

upon silver cascades of beauty

that spill upon the earth searching

for the tenderness of your lips.

Helios roars fierce

lust into the ethereal

fueling primal source of need within.

Flames caressing my souls silhouette

as warmth dances through me.

Alas, the great gargoyle prepares

to swallow as darkness swarms from

between the crumbling walls, decaying

falsities, rotting flesh. The underworld

growls searching for the light…

and I am weak and alone in this fight.

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Words)

Image courtesy of the wonderful Katherine Hornby 🙂

 

Flakes.

img_20160909_062033.jpg

Decaying memories etched into forbidden steps,

essence of sorrow seeping from torn wall coverings.

Flakes of death, drawn in through every breath.

Oh, but for the doom of glory stands here a man with a million stories.

Beelzebub whispers a melody of forgotten hues,

iridescent magnitude a walk within his shoes.

Black mist snakes the war torn ground,

but for the treason his honor has found.

Cackles of ancient lips of the night,

whispers,

screams,

squeals of sheer delight,

they come for you,

they come for your soul.

They’ve run their poisoned tongues along

the essence at your core

have feast upon your blood,

a chemical infusion of darkness,

an obsession,

they need more.

Poor ensanguined soul your spillage misses

the holy grail cup and hits instead upon the piss stained floor.

Hush!

Hear now the thudding of an ogres feet as he traipses

the dark and gloomy hallways of eternity,

singing the soft lullaby of torture.

Do you hear him? In the dead of night

deep within the shadows his howl

penetrates the dark…

he is coming for his uncollected soul.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)