I am a writer, master of deceit.

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I am an artist. I am a writer. I am a child of fantasy and I weave deceit through silken ties of beauty to create for you a truth, a version of truth, a lie, a lie that spins from my tongue covered in the purest honey nectar. Take my hand let me create for us a utopia of love submerged beneath oceans of emerald green sprinkled with the dust of a thousand purest diamonds. Ooh how we will dance in the cool ebbing tide of love beneath the golden rays of an eternal sun, flames flickering as we frolic. I am a writer, a master of deception, let me weave for you a beauty that transcends the oceans of time as stars illuminate our skies and darkness creeps across our naked skin caressing the contours of our souls as they entwine beneath the pearlescent glow of a loving moon. I am an artist, I am a writer, I am trained in the art of observation, I am master of the tails I spin, I am the master of deceit. I am the devil in the guise of an angel my words are the armored wall that shrouds me so I may craft in peace perfect fantasies to appease. I am a writer, I am an artist, I am the pure light you believe exists, innocence the essence of my soul the gentle whisper that tickles across a spring breeze as dawn wakes and night leaves. Piercing eyes of distraction, soft lips of need, porcelain skin of vulnerability from upon my cloud of fantasy, I, see, all. I watch and learn, I listen and read I follow the paths of intentions hidden behind words, mismatch them. I can paint any picture of poetic perfection, I can map human behaviour, read the nuances understand the subtle hints and with perfect understanding I hear the things not uttered.  And I learn, and I learn. I am an artist, I am a writer I am a master of deceit.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)

Where souls are created.

Poem inspired from a photo prompt, courtesy of David Palmer which can be discovered over on g+ right here in this super amazing poetry forum.

 

https://plus.google.com/+DavidPalmer816/posts/7B2WVj3ag6r

Every garden should be filed with tulips,

of every colour

with daffodils and daisies

and dandelion wishes along the end row.

Every garden should be filled with scented

roses of pink, yellow, glorious red and delightful

peach. There should be flower pots, welly boots,

rakes and old broken treasures.

For it is here in the garden that we are created.

It is here  beneath the  autumn leaves that the

young artist discovers colour and texture.

In springs fresh blossoms the young poet discovers

metamorphosis as the butterfly dances past.

It is here as the summer sun rises into the skies

that the musician sings the tune of the whistling

morning bird for the very first time.

And among the death of winter the writer rises

creating an escape of warmth and adventure as

Amazons and Swallows are relived.

And in every broken treasure is born the historian

hungry for knowledge and the engineer who see’s

life in the broken. And the crafter who see’s what can be

not what is as the future scientists mix water and scented

rose petals.

Every garden should be filled with tulips of every colour

and old broken wagon wheels, for it is here in the garden

that souls are born and spirits created and

children become their futures.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

I imagine you taste like…

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I imagine you would taste of; love, sweet like cherry ade with fizzy bubbles popping on my tongue, and the ocean on a fresh crisp evening the salt lingering in the air. I imagine you would taste of the delicate blades of lush grass beneath my bare feet or concrete warm and soothing as rain spits down forming pools for me to dance in. Or maybe a thousand words shared between new lovers, shy and blushing as their lips meet in the precious first kiss. I imagine you would taste of falling tears and hearts tearing open, of broken promises and thunder storms, atoms charging the skies. Or maybe of hidden glances and butterflies, or the excitement of exploring the unknown. Or sweet tea, morning coffee, broken, dunken biscuits and empty packets. I imagine you would taste like the first flakes of snow falling from the red skies and perfect naps and the last chapter of a book that I read first so I can see how the story is created I imagine, you taste like creation.

Karen Hayward. ©2016