Seemingly bottomless.

Art Work of Alice in Wonderland <3 <3

Perhaps the fall is
like Alice’s hole,
seemingly bottomless,
lined with trinklets,
jars of memories, speckled
stars of hope,
freckled fragments of
love.
And storms, of course storms.
Hazardous hailstorms of despair raining down upon
Queen of tarts,
of hearts,
of tarts and hearts
and perhaps the
odd King hiding in the
recesses of time.
Maybe, falling in love is
like the mad Hatters tea party, chipped china,
pretty pastels,
cucumber sandwiches,
forever there, forever gone,
always coming and
never wrong.
For, there is always time for tea, always a tomorrow,
another cup,
good and bad,
It’s a given,
a promise of a brighter
day, a loving embrace within
the sweet liquid nectar.
And yes, there will be
mouldy bread, curdled milk,
Flies of destruction.
There will be sugar
thieves and odd concoctions,
but there will always be
tomorrow,
another tea party.
Yes, perhaps falling
in love is just like
falling into
Alice’s world.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image found on pinterest

Pick a card

Pic

k a number. Any number,

Pick a number from one to ten.

Pick a colour, close your eyes. 

Pick a card, choose a colour. 

Purple. The colour of Kings and Queens. 

Kiss me. Taste love on my 

Lips as I draw in your breath. 

Pick a door, any door, for all 

paths lead me to you. Pick a lock,

any lock, it matters not, love is 

every card trick rolled in purple

Silk and scattered across the keys 

Aof time. Pick a card, any colour,

Achoose a lock…find the right door.

The mystery of magic, find the right

door. 
Karen Hayward ©2016

Achoose

It is the triangle that calls my name.

We search the soulless faces for a flicker of recognition.

Glaring into empty eyes, lips twitching we watch in anaticipation

Listening to the unsung words of their soul as their lips move

and their voice echos past us, a melody perfectly played.

But the tune is empty like the empty faces and empty voices

in this lonesome over crowded world of ours. So we search

unconsciously, ears prickling for the sound of cymbals being

harmoniously crashed together. All we hear is the high pitched

twang of the triangle, we keep moving, forever moving, the

triangles sound ringing in our ears as we walk past them..their

eyes speak of no secrets shared and their voice is a whisper

in the crowds, we walk past them, searching for the cymbals

when it is the triangle that calls.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016