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
Tag: observation
Soft hues.
Reflection.
I tidy away mess,
clearing clutter
as if it will somehow
penetrate my head,
dust the darkest
corners of my mind.
I throw into the tin bin
broken fragments of the
past, I ponder whether the
mind has a trash bin
that can be retrieved
at any point, or do the
garbage men call weekly
in my sleep to empty
the contents.
I air out dirty washing,
throw what no longer fits.
Iron out creases
only to crease it differently
as I fold it neatly.
I watch as they take my hard work,
discard the neatness and
cram it thoughtlessly into
their open drawer,
that refuses to close,
over flowing with creased
garments, hinted memories
thrown together into a heap.
Karen Hayward ©2016
Reflective nuclear destruction.
Angry atoms sparking in retaliation reflecting the atrocities of battle scars. Open wounds bleeding profusely, crimson life force congealing on the broken steps of the great temple. Dark matter threatens to spill, black veil and a freign of indifference in which to spike your soul, a souvenir for the jar collection. Nuclear reactor, what does the atom care anyway, good, bad their roles are predefined by human hands. They can be anything we curve their existence into.
Light cannot penetrate the obstacles of occurrence that dark matter shadow. So the atoms conspire to create a reflective surface, the continuum effect the great war of darkness a battleground of pain. The soldiers of broken esteem shooting constant rounds from guns of insecurity. But the atoms will not stop, the reflection must occur for the light to penetrate wholly.
Dispersed, a ritual cleansing of the soul. Once broken they can recreate their form. Anger energising the sparks of revelations a nuclear reactor sits inside, the button calling out.
Karen Hayward ©2016 image and words.
Vultures.
Vultures
picking
clean the
carcass,
the elitism of
self arrogance
leaves behind
a rotting
stench
of
ego.
Karen Hayward ©2016
Old man.
Old man I see you walk the broken road
as morning rays of sun delve into the
shadows to reach you. Look up. Look
up and see what the world is offering.
Old man I watch you as you hobble past
your coat pulled in tight, I see the pain
that festers in your bones, I feel the
shame that rots inside your soul.
Old man, you know that I do see,
the glimmer is in your eyes that avert
and search the mottled concrete.
Old man, blessed are you with the beauty
of grace, I wonder now who you were
in your younger years when your body
was your own, your soul is etched
upon your face, in the eyes that do not
look, in the steps that back away, in the
hesitation at the world.
Old man look up, see you are not alone.
Karen Hayward ©2016
The definition.
An observation.
He never smiles
his wife walks
two paces
behind
I ponder if this,
is the definition marriage.
Karen Hayward ©2016