Ancestoral whispers.

Legs trample me in their rush 

to achieve greatness as I fall to 

the floor consumed by weakness. 

My transparent existence lays torn. 

I offer no resistance to the 

oncoming stampede as vultures 

devour my innards to feed. 

I reach alone into the heavens 

gazing at the stars, 

whilst soldiers of Beelzebub 

claw at my scars. 

No one hears my screams 

they echo through the thunderous

 clouds, no one see’s my face 

beneath the masquerade shroud. 

I converse coherently to my 

inner child, 

we sit broken 

on the cold concrete for a while. 

Dirt stained hands rest upon my

 shoulders, 

holding me down, 

helping me drown. 

Gulping down the polluted air

I feel it spread through my veins 

Staining my heart, branding my soul. 

I stop breathing.

Listen to the beat

of my dying heart as

my blood slows.

Beating

Beating

Beating

Beating. 

…Beating.

From beneath the shadows of darkness

I hear the distant ancestoral whisper. 

Drums fighting for the perfect 

beat rapidly a chaotic rush

of angry echos.  

Eyes open I see past the legs 

that trample, 

I push away the tainted 

hands of despair. 

My apparent transparency the force 

in my rising soul,

as my inner child whispers,

I need not be seen,

to be whole. 
Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)

Am I?

Am I a shadow? Is that why nobody knows,

the things that I think, the things that I show.

Am I a dandelion in a field full of sunflowers?

Hidden by petals up there on the tower.

Am I the soft breeze that blows in a storm

I really do wonder if I even have form.

Am I the mist hidden by the sea’s spray

would anyone know if this mist didn’t stay?

Am I anything other than toil

or am I simply the left over soil?

 

Karen Hayward ©2015