Labelled lubricant of liberation

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

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

Spiralled ramblings

Tell you everything?
My thoughts are stolen
snippets of wordless
beliefs built on
empty searches of
knowledge and you
scare me. I am the
raw essence and you
are the knowing.
I am a voice, meek,
reaching and you wear
the markings of
of many teachers and
many pages and
many books. . .
Tell you everything
I think. . .
It is fear
trepidation
I should own
no such thoughts
I should utter no
words
But I will, I fear
the shadowed
entity you see
when you look
at me
But fear is
my passion
Fear is my
strength
Fear is my
power. . .
Everything
next time.
KH ©2018

Caught in the gnarled teeth of my terrors

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Caught between two planes of existence,
slumbers promise a far of lie,
lost within the realms of my dreams
all fingers, eyes, smiles and presence,
held captive within your essence
as spectres draw me from my sleep
fingers cold dragging, pulling
gasping as touch becomes real
and I am awake, in the darkness
of eternity,
caught between the two planes of existence,
again and again and again
you are there, waiting for me to dream….
again and again and again
they are there waiting to pull me from my love.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image found on Pinterest

The silent mist calls me home…

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I have a deep yearning
within me
for solitude
silence,
for the
swaying grass,
and whistling leaves
for rolling hills
endless skies of blue
and the rising
giggle of the days
sun spilling across
lush green grass
just beyond
the railroad
and her one
a week station
that sits patiently
without sound,
yearning for the
hustle and buzzle of life.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found on Pinterest

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

I am the swirl,

the turn and the mix,

colours blended,

way beyond fix,

I am the screams,

the pierces of light,

I am the silence

I am the flight.

I am the flurry

instrewed upon sight

the westward sun

and the abandoned night.

I am the silence

out just for kicks

I am the swirl

the curve and the flick,

I am the swirl,

the curve

and the kick.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words