The twilight seconds of an empath

The Twilight Seconds of an Empath

At hours past when lingers only twilight,
The owl, my companion guards my nights
His call an ancient song of remembrance
a message from Selene of transcendence.
Among the vast emptiness of life
the tangible moment between seeing and sight
when eyes closed I hear, I see I know,
The universal energy at perfect flow
Alone, is that moment, when voices I hear,
closed eyes and faces so near.
I’m told it is a gift to see and hear and feel,
It is an existence all too real
and when I say I think you… then know
you are, you will, you do…
For we are just energy…
And I have a front row seat for the show
for that is my reality.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Hosted by the amazingly wonderful Mr +Dennis Gatheright#poetsphotoprompts

Photo

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

Likely set ablaze the page… 

My thoughts would likely
set ablaze the page,
Perhaps best I let them fester
In silent implosions
dot to dot conclusions
and solid doubt
of realities illusions.
Delusions
My thoughts would likely
tear holes through
constellations
rip apart solar systems
Redesign the universe
and yet, would
surely quench this
burning thirst
A cure for perhaps
mothers tongue, a curse.
My thoughts
My thoughts
My thoughts would surely
set ablaze the page
Crimson flow,
nature’s rage
Not wrong not right
Blinded by terrors sight
upon my tongue then
I shall bite,
whilst quietly waiting
for the emptyness
of night.

Karen Hayward ©2017

It might be… Pms

It might be,
pre menstrual cramp,
a drummer boy,
blade in hand
Perforating holes through
scars of ovaries.
Or it could be the tiredness
that 5am brings in the silence of
darkness,
it might be nothing,
everything,
or a little in between.
It is perhaps a rise
in hormones a dip in
pain levels and the swirling
tug of sore muscles.
It could be a lack of chocolate
A need for food, a rumbling
stomach…
Or storage heaters,
an insomniacs personal
hell, not enough
covers…
A lack of stars
A lack of snow
A lack of moon…
the essence of hera, fear
unknown or the
endless realm of thoughts…

Everything so silent
Everything so distant
Everything so dark
Everything so…

Karen Hayward ©2017

The cerebral effect.

*edit from draft box.

chaos

A life devoid of emotions.
Let the sin of skin speak the truths and
devour our souls as passion slips
through onto the page. Fill the
emptiness with desire. Desire.
Desire that is inspired by an emotional
attraction. Fuse the temporary emotions
that can be created for purpose. Purpose,
the emotional state of being. Without being there
is no purpose. Emptiness that devours the soul
even death would be a welcomed benefactor, there
is no fate worse than this, the vastness of an
abyss. Frozen in time as an old homemade VHS tape
flicks though the candid camera. Before pictures.
Black and white tinged in belief, spoiled now
with a rainbows smear as even the leprechaun
sheds a tear for the broken. To venture, leave
behind past scars and become devoted to the
moment without concern for the future.
Remove my domino, let the cloak fall to
my feet and bare myself with the abandonment
of an untouched spirit and let passion be the
sparkle in my dying eyes. A life devoid of
emotion, is no life at all, it is the black abyss
of faithful regret, the cerebral effect of monotone
existence. It buries me raw in the bloodied
mud of mistrust and flows through my veins
poisoning my essence. It is the slow death
that creeps though your days as the angel
hides in the shadows, watching and waiting
to collect your part lived soul. But as he reaches
down to pick you out from the crowd, the
hollow shell cracks, the soul atomized. Forgotten
dust as the breeze carries the delicate petals
on new adventures.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Image found on Pinterest

 

 

Coldness. 

Cold cuts through me to the core,

As winds whistle from beneath the door. 

Storms forming of winters gloom

pulled from slumber all too soon. 

This coldness is not my friend, 

I wonder will this shivering ever end. 

Coldness cutting me my bones do freeze,

as autumn skips through dying leaves. 

BlNkets and hot water bottles pulled into my chest,

I plead these heat will help me rest. 

Eyes sore and muscles long hurting after lack of sleep,

Coldness penetrates so deep. 

Coldness penetrates so deep,

Insomnia, anything, so those dreams they’ll keep. 
Karen Hayward ©2016

Implosion of inner demons.

Your skin is dry and brittle

it snags against the fabric

as you run your hand up and

down. I barely feel your touch

but the pang of skin is deafening.

I want to scream. I want to cry.

I want to hide so far in the darkness

and allow myself to fall apart, disperse

into atoms as you rotate your hand in

long movements up and down.

I wonder what it is your doing,

caressing my leg or the dry

brittle skin on your hand.

Either way I must now piece myself

back together.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016