The gentle essence of sleep leaves me now
I stretch away the cold snake of winter
that crept beneath the blankets open mouth
and curled around my slumberous splinter.

I listen for a short second to birds,
they sing of merriment and joyous days
a perfect orchestra requiring no words
existing through the melody of play.

I watch a lone drop of water diving
happy, into a pool of ecstasy
sporadic tip taps and gleeful sightings
I pause and drink in this reality

Rising with cold still upon my tired skin
I pull on a soft, worn, cashmere jumper
embracing now soft pinks and floral prints
I am the hushed tones of succubus amber

I try to recall the day I became this new essence of femininity
and decide it was always there in haze,
Hiding behind my broken fantasies.

I sit by the open window and see,
sleep has left me free from worries, concerns
and in the silence the serenity nurtures me
And I am at peace listening to the birds

Karen Hayward ©2019

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Is love the Holy Grail…

Some days she’s the spark that ignites fire,
a raging blaze of loves passion burning
fueling lit embers that raise her higher
stroking, nudging, stirring this deep yearning.
Other days she’s the silent, passive hues
Submerged in toxicity of drowning
she rebukes the swollen ego that flew,
leaves herself a broken shell and frowning.
The nightingale promises found love,
Singing a lullaby of forever
on the ebbing tides of home, calm and rough,
the precious pearl and her loyal protector
She wonders if all dreams are fairy-tales,
Or if true love is the holy grail.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image downloaded from Google search

A carefully compiled list of quirks

I am a carefully compiled list of quirks
Please do not kiss me with vacant lips
I am a forgotten library of ancient works
Do not touch me with tender finger tips
I am a self made bookcase of insanity
Do not stain me with a silver tongue,
I am organised to my own conformity
Please, do not think I can be undone.
I am a catalogue of first editions
Please, do not think me second choice
I am all the eccentricities of my vision
So please, do not silence my only voice.
A lifetimes worth of precious works
I am a carefully compiled list of quirks

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via Google search

Always the whore once the angel

Between the
opposing vines
and strangling ivy,
under the
thorned blackberries
and
spite filled Holly
lays the
naked undercurrent
of my thoughts,
battling nurtures
insects and natures angels
And we are
what we create
in the devils flames,
branded souls
whimpering for the deed
they long forgot they
up and sold.
Once an angel
always a whore
Echoing in the broken
beads of thoughts
taught
on a death man’s wish
once brought.
Don’t you see the
shadows that suffocate
feeding from the sins
I’ve sort,
Yeah, once an angel
always a whore
pacing the sinners
catwalk shore
I am my flesh
do as you please
I am my gasps my moans
desire and lust.
I am nothing more.
Once an angel
always the whore.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found on WordPress free library

The chaotic tango through invisible self.

Photo

I leave a shard of myself in the shadows
A soft echo of spirit, she moves with care
unseen by all, she is delicacy, vulnerability
she is the binding Celtic knot. She is my net
when I fall, my enough my embrace my love.
I leave a shard of me in the shadows
where few think to glance as they tango
through me in a tantalised dance.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words