The matrix of paper cut souls

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I wonder if we listen carefully enough

will we hear the distant whir of machinery.

A computerised filing cabinet,

blossoming leaves stained with the ink

of fallen tears.

A matrix of every decision I have made,

every indecision,

every heart break shared in solitude upon that bench.

What pain, fear, self esteem and lack of belief have

those frozen petals collected over the years.

And yet I never came back and told you.

I never told you that I passed those exams

you watched me study for, I never told you

I failed my history A level, I never told you

I failed my Maths…again.

I never came back to say I had sorted it out,

it was fixed, things were better,

I was hurting less. I wonder if these

fallen leaves are the half tales I recall.

If for a moment the thin veil

between worlds were to separate,

would I find here drawn against the

crumbling walls of this ancient castle,

the blueprint of my resistance

paths walked, destinies lost,

fates forgotten.

And who guards my precious data?

For I feel the ancient call tug upon my

soul as I wander close by, a core need

whispering on winters breeze carried

upon frozen dust particles,

calling me home.

But who is it that calls unto my soul?

Karen Hayward ©2016

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Matrix of silent reality.

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From the empty silence I steal away the depths of reality and wrap them in white cotton to bury deep beneath the freezing ground. The echo of existence whispering to me the secrets of humanity and in this silence I know the answers are to be found. Solid ice thaws to the trending escapism of a pixelated Neverland unbound by the rules of society. We are whatever we say we are until the cloak falls and the darkness seeps away and no longer are we hidden by our reality. The beauty of the chaos theory fluttering the wings of now pulling at the threads of fate. The matrix code becomes intertwined and woven between the souls of the dead that believe they are the living whilst the puppeteer engineers every connection that we make. I ponder who are the wise when we are the empty spirits of an old mans philosophy. Haunting beliefs that follow us through the streets of serenity. If autonomy is the devils whisper then I choose you without reproach, i’ll lead you into temptation and wear my heart as though a broach. But reality is a fallacy a facade of broken dreams and in the silence I will find what reality means.

 

Karen Hayward 2016