Stop the endless search for purity

If only they would stop searching the endless paths of

hopeless fools that dominate the green green grass

of earth. If they could just stop looking to appease the

lost souls of the blind clones and their followers, they

could be free. They could strip away the insecurities

of an unstable society and walk the balance beam of chaos,

one foot in front of the other as their soul flies on ahead

to clear the way. If for a moment they could shake away

their prudish thoughts, let passion enter their minds, brush

away the dirt of a gentleman’s rule, they could know ecstasy.

The creeping wave that floods through the perfectly tuned body;

inhibitions left at the door, clothes strewn across the floor,

desire in the fingertips of fire, passion no longer

denied as the flames burn inside.

If only they could walk this path, leave behind the sins of

the clueless few who fear the strong. So much fear for the other side,

for those that walk bare skinned without sin beneath a veil

of devilish fun with tantalizing tales of lust, stories of trust

and moments in time of naked bodies never meant to

be mine. Alas, the path is their choosing all mottled in grey

always concerned for the place where they lay.

Karen Hayward ©2015

To write is to breathe

To write is to breathe. The life within me that drives my essence through each crunching day deep into the realms of humanity. I am but the words I spill I am but never the thoughts I kill. 

But true to form. To explore through eyes of sense and feel through words of decorum self discovery, when the shadows come a calling and twilight shrouds us from our dreams. 
An imposter I make false promises to the gods that I shall write of travesties told with my ink the blood of a thousand truths my page the parchment of darkness that haunts our days and I am but an imposter. 
I can speak of no truths. My tongue is tied my hands bound down my ink run dry my parchment burns in flames of reality and every word I place upon the page of fury is erased. Erased. 
I am not worthy to be called a poet I am a traitor to the ancient calling, I can weave but words upon a page and create beauty that lacks soul. I can merge syntax with dialect  and make voice appear from behind the mask. 
I am condemned in dark streets of ego my voice curbed and this posion kills me. Take a bite of my flesh and feel the slow torture of death you deserve it your horned.maker awaits your return, please tell him again, he cannot have my soul. 
Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)