Breathe in.
Take the mornings
into your soul.
Own it.
Know it.
It is the scent
of shame.
forget it.

God, God’s
Deities, cosmos,
Angels, Gaia,
Science, Atoms
Spirits, nothing.

Breathe in.
Feel the moist air.
Celestial tears
for the fallen.
Own it.
Know it.
It is the tears
of shame,
forget it.

God. God’s.
Deities. Cosmos.
Angels. Gaia.
Science. Atoms.
Spirits. . .

Breathe in.
Listen. Listen
to your inner guide.
Hear the universe
as she speaks.
Karma has a voice.
The angels speak
in whispers.
God talks through
The earth screams
through leaves.

Our fallen,
angel wings
leave a trail of
shadows to
heaven’s gate.

God. God’s.
Deities. Cosmos.
Angels. Gaia.
Science. Atoms.
Spirits. . .
Nothing. . .
Stand guard.
Returning evil.
Waiting at the
gates of hell.

There is no glory
In blood
stained hands,
even Satan,
refuses to open
his gates.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017

Image found on pinterest

What spectre has a hold.

What is it that pulls us from our sleep,
the words we dream or the images we seek?
What horror laid in wait as slumber barely came
do such dreams even have a name?
The broken tie of choices made,
A whisper that the debt is paid.
Gut wrenching connection severed in time,
Like the universe needed to say, ‘Sorry, they’re  mine. ‘
What darkness pulls me from the other world,
Pulling me from clouds so perfectly pearled,
and a sky of crystal love
as crushed diamonds fall from above.
What spectre claws at my skin as our fingers touch
As blood rushes to the beating drum as such.
As I am dragged feet kicking into the darkness of shadows
that dance around my sight, unsure who is friend and who is foe in these horrors that are night.
What lays in waiting, creeping slowly upon my bed, upon my skin,
Tell me dark creature of the night, why is it that you come for me,
and tell me dark creature of the night, will you ever release me?

Karen Hayward 2016©

Long hair-the devils disguise.

You had it all and more. Memories are faulty,

a memory of the last time I recalled that memory.

You had it all or so they said. Except,

you never did get me into your bed. I know, I know

the stories you told, I was just young unsure

too shy, but I never once believed that envious

lie. Someone once said that not all is as is,

look for the signs he wants you to miss.

You were a concept of beauty for sure,

but I never once, knocked at your door.

My first taste of love my first taste of hate

and you called yourself his very best mate!

Did you tell him that lie

when he was gone for the night?

You had it all and more,

now your a drunk at a broken shore

searching still the empty bottles

long gone now is the conceptual throttle.

The oldest profession is the key to my freedom.

The final fight,
Will be dirty.
I suspect i’ll sell my soul,
To reach my goal.
I don’t have strength,
Or weapons of destruction.
My body,
I will sell it, to you, the evil black hole of despair,
Whilst i am under construction, i no longer care.
It is a vessel of means.
The oldest profession known to man,
Will be the reason that i can.
I’ll sell my soul,
To reach my goal.
I’ll cover it in white, light,
To protect it through the night.
I’ll use it as currency,
An exchange of sorts,
To free up my time,
I’ll do this crime.