I sometimes catch my shadow

Photo

I sometimes
catch
the not so distant
sound of footsteps
lurking in past
shadows
walking
behind us.
Do you hear
mine? Bleeding,
tar like energy
through the
Open vines of our
existence.
Then the sun rises
and our past
shadows creep
Into our future self’s
Vivid darkness
contrasting light
I sometimes hear
the footsteps
of your shadowed
past creeping
alongside my
demons and I
wonder are they too
tied by the echos
of ancient maps.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

It might be… Pms

It might be,
pre menstrual cramp,
a drummer boy,
blade in hand
Perforating holes through
scars of ovaries.
Or it could be the tiredness
that 5am brings in the silence of
darkness,
it might be nothing,
everything,
or a little in between.
It is perhaps a rise
in hormones a dip in
pain levels and the swirling
tug of sore muscles.
It could be a lack of chocolate
A need for food, a rumbling
stomach…
Or storage heaters,
an insomniacs personal
hell, not enough
covers…
A lack of stars
A lack of snow
A lack of moon…
the essence of hera, fear
unknown or the
endless realm of thoughts…

Everything so silent
Everything so distant
Everything so dark
Everything so…

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image

In the chary depths of an Island of solace.

I wish to be an Island, lost far out at sea.

Swimming in solitude with no one to see.

I can’t echo thoughts etched upon scars

as darkness embraces a world full of stars.

I wish to be an Island, blind to their beauty

saved from the shadows cast by the beauties.

I can’t echo grace for you wont or you will

and if left unto me they’re all such a thrill.

I wish to be an Island, to which nothing compares

alone out at sea, so I cannot compare…

For grass that is softer, petals more scented

skies like the heavens and fantasies fated.

I wish to be an Island, lost far out at sea

a place in the silence where I cannot see.

 

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

 

 

 

 

Soldier of ancient knowing.

mikewildyelginger1

My soul is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue barely filling

the crevices of histories voice echoing through the

lost caves of innocence.

Smashed China, pastel floral’s

lost in the vivid hues of self destruction…I wear my scars

with the whispered honor of shame, the rivets caused

by the dull blades have become storage boxes of rational

thought, irrationally taped together in tears that fall only as

darkness reigns…Even I must stay relatively sane.

And deep within this constellation of thoughts I search

the battle ground for your essence. Praying I will find you

safely jumping across the stepping stones of

my existence, but alas my horizon is clear and yet

I feel you so near. A soldier of love I find you

peeling back torn memories, embracing the deep

etches of self doubt and kissing away the deep echos of

darkness that shroud me from light. My honored Knight

taking arms against this lifelong fight.

My soul…

is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with your love and vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue and your gentle insistent

whispers of encouragement  filling the crevices of histories

voice echoing through the lost caves of my innocence.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image Michael J.Garland. ©2017

The darkness has my soul.

The dark is somehow darker,
It exists on the verge of hope.
The shadows possess more depth,
the silence is absent.
I teeter on the edge of destruction,
and no one sees me in the darkness.
The silent implosion.
The darkness is pulling me from slumber,
and dropping me head first into a world of insecurities,
vulnerability clings to my indifference.
The darkness is dragging me from slumber,
searching for the broken pieces of my soul.
Preying on my nightmares,
crashing them into existence.
These are the dreams that rage inside of me,
as the darkness wins.
As the darkness tears apart my soul,
As the darkness becomes my fears
and insecurity bleeds into my open wound,
And all I see is darkness,
and all I hear is darkness,
and all I feel is darkness.

Karen Hayward ©2016