Mans deathly song and still they have not apologised.

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A burden of poison spills from your lips
truths once held become mans laborious chip, “And still they have not apologised”
I ponder who ‘they’ are and beg they
stand forward with their fellow man
and plead requital in united stand,
But alas ‘they’ do not exist
A figment of propaganda how many times
must we say sorry for the sins of
our fathers?
My hands are clean of blood, my mind clean of hate,
And still you condemn me to the devils gate.
Poison spills from the devils lips
As you recreate little bits, history told
from the sight of the blind, for the deaf
of muted mind, so little truth there to find.
And we say show us the facts
And you say Jezebel, hinderer of truth
Lies, mud-blood . . . “look how they refuse
to listen, refuse to repent for their sins”
And still I ask you show me these things.
Hate is a heavy burden for any heart,
And lest we ever forget the trampled chains of regret from a life dug in the past, we etch unity now in the minds of our crying bairns. But for all our
whispers of love you tell them of
a hate that belongs not of this time.
You twist a truth to fit a crime a minority report not yet conceived, by a future stained in the blood of your hate. Future generations stained not by history or apologies from non existent entities, futures generations destroyed by the hate of your tongue, humanities personal civil war, man on fellow man with your
propaganda proposals and
puppeteer strings, yet no one stops to
ask, from where came this mans
deathly sting.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

Propaganda spew

A burden of poison spills from your lips
truths once held become mans labourous chip, “And still they have not apologised”
I ponder who ‘they’ are and beg they
stand forward with their fellow man
and plead requital in united stand,
But alas ‘they’ do not exist
A figmant of propaganda how many times
must we say sorry for the sins of
our fathers?
My hands are clean of blood, my mind clean of hate,
And still you condemn me to the devils gate.
Poison spills from the devils lips
As you recreate little bits, history told
from the sight of the blind, for the deaf
of muted mind, so little truth there to find.
And we say show us the facts
And you say jezeebel, hinderer of truth
Lies, mudblood . . . “look how they refuse
to listen, refuse to repent for their sins”
And still I ask you show me these things.
Hate is a heavy burden for any heart,
And lest we ever forget the trampled chains of regret from a life dug in the past, we etch unity now in the minds of our crying bairns. But for all our
whispers of love you tell them of
a hate that belongs not of this time.
You twist a truth to fit a crime a minority report not yet conceived, by a future stained in the blood of your hate. Future generations stained not by history or apologies from non existent entities, future generations destroyed by the hate of your tongue, humanities personal civil war, man on fellow man with your
propaganda proposals and
puppeteer strings, yet no one stops to
ask, from where came this mans
deathly sting.

Karen Hayward ©2017

When all the sorry’s of tomorrow are taken.

Photo

A burden of poison spills from your lips
truths once held become mans laborious chip, “And still they have not apologised”
I ponder who ‘they’ are and beg they
stand forward with their fellow man
and plead requital in united stand,
But alas ‘they’ do not exist
A figmant of propaganda how many times
must we say sorry for the sins of
our fathers?
My hands are clean of blood, my mind clean of hate,
And still you condemn me to the devils gate.
Poison spills from the devils lips
As you recreate little bits, history told
from the sight of the blind, for the deaf
of muted mind, so little truth there to find.
And we say show us the facts
And you say jezeebel, hinderer of truth
Lies, mudblood . . . “look how they refuse
to listen, refuse to repent for their sins”
And still I ask you show me these things.
Hate is a heavy burden for any heart,
And lest we ever forget the trampled chains of regret from a life dug in the past, we etch unity now in the minds of our crying bairns. But for all our
whispers of love you tell them of
a hate that belongs not of this time.
You twist a truth to fit a crime a minority report not yet conceived, by a future stained in the blood of your hate. Future generations stained not by history or apologies from non existent entities, futures generations destroyed by the hate of your tongue, humanities personal civil war, man on fellow man with your
propaganda proposals and
puppeteer strings, yet no one stops to
ask, from where came this mans
deathly sting.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

Redundant frequency.

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I sometimes ponder the redundancy of words, second hand letters used again and again to describe the minds responsive state. Is any word sacred? On my death bed with my dying breath will I whisper for the first time the totality of my love on a sacred word that you will treasure as you would the lingering touch of my lips against yours? How many times have we whispered love into other lost souls? These are the foundations of our past. We use them as stepping stones into our future, recycling the feel of them beneath our fingers. A monochrome TV set fixed on repeat with the remote long gone. Are we destined to forever read from the same script, to forever act out the same scene, repeating our well rehearsed lines, over and over.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Learning new stuff.

So for those that know me well, they know I’ve always got something going on, well this weeks something is this. So firstly what is it, it’s cousera a great place to study at no cost, the courses are provided by many, many global universities, and shall I say it again, at no cost! You can of course pay to have a certificate sent out to you £32 for the UK, so depending if you want the certificate, me personally I just enjoy filling my head up :). The course I chose this time is Soul Beliefs: Causes and Consequences-unit 1: Historical foundations. Which in my opinion is absolutely perfect for where my thoughts are at the moment :). So anyway, yeah just thought I would be kind and share the link, in case anyone else fancies some free learning. 🙂 I think if I remember rightly they have a creative writing course too :).

Washed away at Walton Cliffs.

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A thousand voices of days gone by,
as I sit beneath a deep blue sky.
Waves lapping with eager peace
playing with the summer breeze.
This used to be, it once was..
covered now in sea moss.
Eroding cliffs, reveal the past,
history’s story, that couldn’t last.
An endless sea of calm and rough
a place to throw your woes and stuff.
A battleground of forgotten days
Gone. All washed away.

Karen Hayward (c) 2015 (image and words)