Thunder storms beating in your heart

There is a silence before rain falls
hissing through atoms, empty, threatening,
soldiers of nature crashing into life.

But what of all the crimson blood that spills?
I grasp at the lose threads of my shadow
as it splits, a fierce drum, beating, beating.

A blunt knife tearing heaving hearts chambers.
I count in my mind how many foot steps,
one for each sting of thunders dropping light.

One hundred? Two hundred? I estimate
five hundred. Five hundred shards of my soul
scattered through tiny drops of petrichor.

The earthly fragrance, natures pure blessing
and yet a curse defined in your young heart
but does it beat now rapid screams of need.

There goes another shard, sharp and glossy
outer glow of maternal lubricant.
If only I were your belief. Your hero.

Powered by the Gods, a new mutation
chemically, born to other planets. . .
I could slow the falling bullets of rain

Calm the orchestra of your blood playing
in your ears. I could transmit messages
skimming across the surface water drum.

Manipulate cloud and envelope you
in protective fluff mothers wings out stretched

I would fly the universe for you, dear
my spirit catching claps of blue thunder
between the falling tears of hell’s recluse

Karen Hayward ©2017

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blue body of water with orange thunder
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I wield Excalibur at twilight spirits.

Power

A deep throb, thumping
within my temples.
Beating. Beating. Beating.
Then the rain, thrashing,
lashing, crashing.

I am reminded of
promises made and
promises broken.
Sat alone in pitch
black shadows

Edging ever closer
White illuminated skies
haunting rolls, deep angry
growls howling screams
plunged into darkness.

I have become my
own saviour, I wield
Excalibur at twilight
spirits, creeping
shadows and thunder.

Silence disturbed
only by cars dispersing
the puddles. There is hope.
Storms pass and skies clear
After all. Suspicion becomes me.

Sleep, the world’s answer
to all problems, eyes
fearful, wild, the lone wolf
or delicate deer, sleep is a
wish not made by my fear.

Rain humming static lullaby
melodic symphony, celestial
skies alit, the deep roar felt
within, scattering to my core.
Alone.
Pitch black.
Reality for sure.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017

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