Will you still when I am aged

Will you. . . ?
When my skin wears the markings
of my days and the lines of my nights
etched upon my face in a constellation
of battles won and wars lost.
Will you…?
When my hair is peppered with storms
meant to crush and dances meant to
drown. Leaving a trail of suffocated
colour, speckled through my timeline.
Will you…?
When my essence is muted grey in a
room full of rainbows arching to
perfection as I stumble to stand but
manage only to fall… Will you?
Will I?
Yes, when life is tattooed across your skin
in the distant echoes of battles, knights and Kings,
Yes, when age holds you within its grasp,
hair disappearing rapidly fast.
Yes, when our minds are a riddle
of yesteryears, lost thoughts and a need to tiddle,
Yes, when presence is historical in fresh blooms
among young meat in crowded rooms…

And suddenly I understand the depth of ‘of course’
the reason behind loves universal laws
We are all of our good bits, all of our flaws,
And age is the key to a souls longing need,
together we’ll blossom, starting from seed.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image via wordpress

These are not the days of your past…

Be warned. These are not
the harmless swans of your
time, these ducks will not
quack around your feet
for bread when they can
instead devour your flesh.
No. Such days of balance
have passed, we live now
behind salvaged glass.
Oh the lulling nature of
serenity and the clockwork
beating of their hearts
as teeth gnash and wings
tear limbs. Still my mouth
salivates for what they once
were, their blood now
diseased, the chem trail
apocalypse the hunted
became the hunter. Bow
now before the Kings
of our time, death came
death took and left
only the zombie of mind.
The geese, the ducks
the royal swans. . .
the seagulls pecking still
at rotting carcases across
our desolate shores,
and so we live now,
shut behind glass doors.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Apocalyptic future of Sunday lunch

Be warned. These are not
the harmless swans of your
time, these ducks will not
quack around your feet
for bread when they can
instead devour your flesh.
No. Such days of balance
have passed, we live now
behind salvaged glass.
Oh the lulling nature of
serenity and the clockwork
beating of their hearts
as teeth gnash and wings
tear limbs. Still my mouth
salivates for what they once
were, their blood now
diseased, the chem trail
apocolypse the hunted
became the hunter. Bow
now before the Kings
of our time, death came
death took and left
only the zombie of mind.
The geese, the ducks
the royal swans. . .
the seagulls pecking still
at rotting carcuses across
our desolute shores,
and so we live now,
shut behind glass doors.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Wandering the echos of my path

I watch in perfect silence
Shadows, shadowing
my shadows you do not
see, I am a bird hidden
in a tree, I watch, intently
as the world passes
haphazardly.
Intrigue when you look
at me, who I might be,
potential, you wonder
if I see, perhaps I will
tell my tale, my story.
I’ll weave poetically
Entwine majestically
Life’s realities, aghast that
this is no fantasy.
But where would I start
for you are right,
I’m still to believe that
this is my path.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image found on pinterest

Cover them in Satan’s cream.

Once upon a day gone by beneath a deafening
thunderous sky. I waged a war on life
itself, gave my all with love and grace and
then just simply let it fall. I walked on sullen tippy toes
followed life’s incessant flow. Stopped for neither man nor beast
upon this life i’d lovingly feast. Once upon a day far gone
I danced to another song, with hidden lyrics and a tasty beat
constantly moving my naked feet.
I devoured hearts and stole away dreams
covered them in Satan’s cream. I never looked back,
never questioned my track, never cared for the consequences
my fear to attach was relentless.
Once upon a night long gone I sold my soul in the devils song.
I’ve since begged and pleaded to have it back
he only laughs and says ‘you’ll have only a crack.
You’ll see out, but they’ll not look back.’

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

Soft whispers. . .

And when you
speak of beauty,
I hear truth.
And when you
speak of love,
I hear home.
And when you
speak of passion.
I hear understanding.
And when you
speak of us,
I hear for always.

Karen Hayward (c)2017
Image and words

Every Track Leads to the Devil.

I lost my battle of innocence,
by choice,
It was my voice.
Lost my angelic-ness,
This is my mess.
I am tainted,
too late to go back.
What if i’m wrong,
and this is the devils track?
No difference,
It never is,
No one will truly call me his.

Karen Hayward ©2014 (edited 2017)

Image and words