..and they bottled the good the bad and the ugly

… And so he collected pain in small jars and labelled them the past, with a footnote for the future…

… And so she collected pain in small jars and labelled them the future with a footnote for the past…

… And when she appeared he knew within his core…

… And when he appeared she knew it was her call…

… And those jars of pain that belonged to another, they whispered, shouted, screamed and demanded take cover…

… Believing her to be the devil…

…he opened up their lids at the first hurdle and let their essence spill…

… But she was the angel sent to save him..

… And so in fear she tumbled, the jars fell smashed upon the floor…

… And now she drowns in his despair no hand reaching there…

… For he was the angel sent to save her…

… And now, alone, she wonders if he was the devil.

…and they collect pain in small jars upon a shelf…

KH©2018

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It begins

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And it begins, central in my forehead the deep pounding that promises storms on the horizon. Skies of peach Melba as a winter sun stretches his fingers through the frozen web of clouds blocking his way, and the throbbing consumes as we are swallowed by the darkening screams, and it beats, pulling, dragging, striking…my eyes beg to close as I am swallowed by the changing air, my eyes beg to close.

 

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words

Purging the ancient voice of truth

chaos

Some people eat to purge
They devour platefuls of
Love, spoonfuls of hate
Bowls spilling with disgust.

Some, drink vodka, gin
Whiskey and bottled beer
Swigging back pain
Sipping on indifference.

For some, it is one more
run, sprinting back the tears
Curling the fears, stretching
the broken fragments clear.

I purge on the dark recesses
of my skull, pull away at
silver threads, devouring
memories made to break.

I lose myself in the silence
of melancholy let it swim
naked through my veins
Tearing me with each stroke.

I let each one fall, tasting the depth
of their essence, let it
ricochet through me in
forgotten undertones of being.

I purge myself through the
Lost memories of my ancient
voice, capturing them within
A moment, then release,
as my lungs breathe and my
eyes smart at the purging.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image found on Pinterest

No footprints in the snow.

snow

If only.you could see the shattered

remains of my reflection in this

smeared mirror, lost without detection.

Grey eyes searching for your existence

Emptiness ignorantly insistent.

And you are gone

no footprints in the snow

And you are gone lost

the one I thought I know.

Have you ever turned to find me gone?

Through the storms that crashed

The words we lashed, the distant echo

that shattered glass, dooming love so very fast.

Unknown future, murky now in tainted past

Have I ever wandered off our path?

And you are gone

no foot prints in the snow,

And you are gone.

The one I thought I know.

Loyal blood stained on carpets edge

Hooked up to an open needle, synthetic

replacement, drug of choice.

Loyal blood spills across lovers voice, through

The air we breathe, and still you question me?

And you are gone

no footprints in the snow

And you are gone

the only love I’ve known.

And you are gone,

the only love I know.

KH©2016

Image found on Pinterest.

Without the Rainbow Pieces.

Photo courtesy of Walter E. Gantt. ©2016

‘Pieces of a Rainbow.’

waltergannt

I feel a vast emptiness inside of me,

spreading through the black storm

clouds, I search for my Rainbow and

I recall you gave it away.

And I search  for my love

and I remember you gave it away.

And I wonder where is my passion

and I recall you gave up that too.

And I ponder the way we once connected,

perfectly synchronized

and I don’t even try as you gave that away…

And now I wonder what is left…

A future?

A future without love

without passion

without soul

…is a slow and torturous death.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Image used with permission ©Walter E. Gantt. 2016

Please see more of his amazing photography here on g+

His wonderful photography can also be

viewed and brought here at Fine Art America.

At the mouth of Eden.

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…and when I stand before gates of pearl at Edens mouth, our

creator calling my name on divine breath within a

celestial Kingdom, will I find you waiting beneath golden rays,

scroll in hand the calligraphy collective of pain scrawled upon

ancient paper? Will I recognise your face from the haunting moments

in my life that I beg to forget? Is the ink in which you write the essence of

every heartbreak I have felt and will I smell again the stench

of rotting death that has followed me in my darkest moments?

Or will I discover on entering the gates that all along you had

wings of such magnitude and upon that scroll is not a lifetimes

pain but a lifetimes achievements. And that the ink in which you

write truly is not the essence of pain but the collective jar of my tears,

each one a reminder to the Angels of Time why it is that they guard

Pandora’s box. And when I hear your voice will I instantly know

you were the birds that chirped at mornings dawn, the breeze that

whistled through autumn trees and the rain that tapped

upon my soul. And will you tell me that in my darkest

moments when my soul was being torn from my existence,

it was not my pain you were there to collect…it was my fear

and all that held me back.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016