Thunder storms beating in your heart

There is a silence before rain falls
hissing through atoms, empty, threatening,
soldiers of nature crashing into life.

But what of all the crimson blood that spills?
I grasp at the lose threads of my shadow
as it splits, a fierce drum, beating, beating.

A blunt knife tearing heaving hearts chambers.
I count in my mind how many foot steps,
one for each sting of thunders dropping light.

One hundred? Two hundred? I estimate
five hundred. Five hundred shards of my soul
scattered through tiny drops of petrichor.

The earthly fragrance, natures pure blessing
and yet a curse defined in your young heart
but does it beat now rapid screams of need.

There goes another shard, sharp and glossy
outer glow of maternal lubricant.
If only I were your belief. Your hero.

Powered by the Gods, a new mutation
chemically, born to other planets. . .
I could slow the falling bullets of rain

Calm the orchestra of your blood playing
in your ears. I could transmit messages
skimming across the surface water drum.

Manipulate cloud and envelope you
in protective fluff mothers wings out stretched

I would fly the universe for you, dear
my spirit catching claps of blue thunder
between the falling tears of hell’s recluse

Karen Hayward ©2017

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blue body of water with orange thunder
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Like that…

“Don’t be like that”
like what? What is ‘that?’
I wonder if that is the furthest
we have stood, speaking in
tongue, two separate languages
the past converged into those
words.
Is your ‘that’ the same as mine?
perhaps yours
carries a heavier burden
for why speak of my thoughts
if they hold no value.
Why tell you that my ‘that’
was days of the clock pulling
you from me. . . or
perhaps each step was a choice
you made. Or that my
‘that’ is the knowledge that
I’m to be a kept secret whilst
others stand at your side.
Perhaps mine was just
the crevices of my shadows
screaming to be loved
beyond my pornographic
mouth and pulled tight into
the grasp of everything.
To be everything

Karen Hayward ©2017

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Sleeping wonder

It weaves across my skin
leaving a trail of goosebumps
runs its fingers through my hair
and dives deep within my dreams
Tugging at me, a low buzz pulling
at me, a cold vibration caressing me,
trapping me between worlds
slumber a hopeless dream in the
corner room, with its magnificent
essence of beauty by day… And
its unseen shadows at night.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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The smoldering kiss of suppressed
thought, silent flames, burning
memories, (inse) ‘curities fueling
the empty hours that were once
seconds. The vile shadow of intent
for all thoughts have a root, all
words have cause and I feel for the
distant tug of space beyond
prostitution of the flesh. But alas,
some pages we rewrite in frenzied
passion and label it liberation,
erasing our markings with the
over chewed end of a HB pencil
till pages are torn and the canvas
becomes a hue of melancholy grey.

Karen Hayward ©2017

The sting of a pitiful stance.

img_20160419_221320.jpg

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

Intense tug from my core.

chaos

I’m a little afraid.
Afraid of the end.
What my scattered
Remains will
resemble as lost
shards of my soul,
Split the atoms
of my spirit,
penetrating
my heart.
I’m afraid,
Of eternity.
For having tasted
Your essence I will
Crave you till
the end of days.
I’m a little afraid
of you,
For this strength
you have placed
beneath my wings
that drives me higher.
I’m afraid, afraid
of the depth of
reality, the
narcotic pull,
the intense
tug from my core,
I’m afraid you’re
enough, I’m
afraid that I’m sure.
I’m afraid,
for my dirty soul,
messed up spirit
and fragile heart,
of the day that comes
when we are no more.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
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Drowning in my hair. 


There is a silence before rain 

falls hissing through atoms, 

empty, threatening, soldiers 

of nature crashing into life. 

But what of the blood that spills? 

I grasp at the lose threads 

of my soul as it splits with 

each drum a blunt knife 

tearing hearts chambers. 

I count in my

mind how many foot steps, 

one for each sting of thunders drop. 

One hundred? Two hundred? 

I estimate five hundred. 

Five hundred shards of my soul 

scattered through petrichor. 

The earthly scent is a blessing

and a curse defined in your heart. 

Your heart. . .but does it beat now 

rapid screams of need? There 

goes another shard, sharp and

glossed in maternal lubricant. 

If only I were your belief. A hero 

powered by the Gods, mutated 

chemically, born to other planets. . .

I could slow the rain and calm 

the orchestra of blood playing 

in your ears. I could transmit 

messages across the surface 

water, manipulate cloud and 

envelope you in protective fluff. 

My wings would stretch the 

earth in search of you,  my

soul would scour the universe

as my spirit caught claps of

thunder between the falling

droplets of rain.
Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words