Spiralled ramblings

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

Soft hues.

Blue hues
of beauty
spiralling
cold concrete,
harsh realities
lost fantasies,
false prophecies,
The ego’s
fatalities.
The ego’s
fatalities.
Cold concrete
Encasing
the soft hues
of love, spiralling,
delicate petals
lost on who’s breeze.

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

ego.

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.

The definition.

An observation.
He never smiles
his wife walks
two paces
behind
I ponder if this,
is the definition marriage.

Observation of basic needs.

That’s quite the dance

from one to another

words slipping from your tongue

gracefully gliding toward them in

that, knowing, having experienced, way.

Searching for a rawness you will

never find whilst you see it as a

separate entity. Perhaps you

will have fun along the way.