A token from the grave

A token to a killer a treasure in a chest and the policeman comes along to make his first arrest.

Grim he got there first, to take evil to his lair, and left behind Jane Doe,
for Grim couldn’t take her there.

She sat beside the body Stockholm now her name, she cried for her lost daddy, and for when the angels
never came.

Blood upon her hands and shame upon her heart a whimper from the corner and she near on fell apart.

She could not save the rest the monster took them all. A shoe for each the girls that fell, one less if
she could tell.

Throat slit open, eyes closed, blood spilled across the floor Jane Doe dropped the crimson knife and
waited by the door.

She couldn’t waste a second, could feel the mist devour the last shreds of her soul, adrenalin now her power.

She opened up the chest counted up the shoes wandered between the trees collecting bare feet from all the graves she knew.

The policeman followed on and looked deep within her eyes, he counted up the children through his broken, sobbing cries.

Jane, he said, young lady, there’s a shoe left on the wall tell me where to find this grave so her parents I can call.

Jane simply looked away, the officer
begged give us her name. Tell us where to find her grave…

But this shoe had no grave, only demons in her mind for Jane you see, she was the first, life for her perhaps was worse.

He kept her slave by day and night
watched her as she grew, beat her when she seeked the light and even made her choose.

And now her hands are stained with blood, their lives upon her chest, the horrors of her past still raw, Jane Doe will never rest.

But the officer a fierce man now talks above her pleas, Jane he says my child, your daddy was not he, this blood is not your sin, that man was not your kin. So Jane my child tell me, that treasure on the wall,
Give to me a name, so the parents I can call.

Jane looked the officer deep within his eyes, said, you see, that shoe upon the wall, that shoe belongs to me.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words

And sings the glistening beads

Swirling smooth

lush kisses of fog

embracing our skin

with gentle kisses

for the soul.

My love,

let us lose ourselves

deep within

the forest

away from

prying eyes.

Bare skin

beneath the

howling moon,

find me,

taste the essence

of me in each

dew drop upon

your naked form.

There in the forest

between the

swaying leaves.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words

Economic Eyes.

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All eye’s fall upon me;

I sometimes wonder what it is they see

in this tainted prophecy. As you twist the words of this constant

mind, creating fantasies to find in this stereo-typical story of my kind. 

You search and sort and displace the truth imagining a world of five star blue.

But in reality, you haven’t got a clue.

Wrapped up in your cashmere sweater spending money to make life better,

always waiting for the elusive letter, and yet, you truly believe that you are better.

You gossip and talk, watch as they walk, count the visits of the old white stork.

You see without love don’t listen enough and wander away in another huff. But it’s

me in the wrong, it’s been coming so long, I wonder how is it that I’ve stayed so strong.

My life is a banged up box of tragic tales, seeds sown and phases passed and

long out grown, no longer do I stop and moan.

I sit beneath  my tattered cover besides my life long lover and breathe the air

that no longer smothers. I wear odd socks and shoes that scruff with jeans all worn from

life and stuff, these clothes of mine they are just enough.

I am not the jeans I wear or the woven silk socks bought as a pair, for

materialistic things I simply do not care.

You will not find me in the words I write, they do not talk of the battles I fight,

although the truth in them is sometimes slight, this does not mean that you are

right.

And so it is I sometimes wonder what it is you see,

wings out stretched flying free,

             your haunting stares cause me to flee.

Crimson storm of passion.

A deep echoing silence
Surrounds her,
As a stormy breeze warns her.
Soft fingers tracing her skin,
Calm her beating heart.
As he whispers in her ear,
The storm is about to start.

Her eyes glisten with fear,
As she feels the lightening, near.
His hand moves slowly, beneath the soft red lace of her bra,
He cups her breast, and
Kisses her red flushed lips.

The storm becomes a distant sound,
As he strokes her nipple, round and round,
Passion replaces fear,
And she whispers in his ear,
The softness of his skin,
When she holds him near.

Warm rain spilling across her,
The storm is just a blur.
Soft moss beneath her naked skin,
As his fingers glide,
An awakening ting,
with no where to hide.

Rain tip tapping, no longer light,
As she screams in pleasure deep into the lonely night.
His hands holding tight,
As he slips it in,
Just right.

Her pleasure is heard by the creatures of the night,
Eyes watching them,
As they leave behind the light.
His teeth sink in,
Slowly,
Drawing on her life,
He sips upon the crimson,
As the lightening strikes.

Blood spiled and filled with lust,
The urgency is now a must,
As thunderous clouds call from above,
He pins her gently to the moss.
Eyes aware, so full of care,
A perfect fantasy for them to share.