Graphite 

She was graphite, rough and raw.
She’d erase rough lines of guidance,
use the indents as a reminder of where not to walk,
how not to cry,
when not to break.
She’ll sit up into the wee twilight
Hours curving letters across
nipples pert bud,
gently caressing sensuality,
as the sharpened pencil defines
contours of need,
black lines of repression smeared by charcoal nips and probing tips.
Blurred definitions
tainted revelations
deceitful realisations
Graphite creations… how she pondered
now the way we draw our lines
in pencil, temporary markings
leaving a gentle trail
of destruction across
naked bodies beneath Lunar glows
Wild oats, taken, made and sown
Pick ups and throws…
The allure of graphite, need
erased, redrawn… Redrawn.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words 

A phantom

celstialtears

Sometimes I ponder
what you are.
A mirage perhaps,
my body starved
from thirst, a mere
hallucination
of the mind.
A phantom, maybe.
My souls need for hope
a self made vision
in a world of dark
shadows kissed
by the crescent
moon.
Or perhaps you’re a
dream, a universal
symbol coated in
star dust, your essence
a mellifluous whisper
from my slumber.
But what are you?
Reality? No.
How can reality
feel this way. My
reality. How can my
reality feel this way,
A fantasy then?
You must be.
A fantasy of love.
Of acceptance.
We were never
meant to be.
Or perhaps,
we are the definition
of serendipity.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image found on pinterest

“in love’s opiate embrace” 

IMG_20170413_110950

Surround me, drown me, engulf me

the essence of your desire has long

become the beating drum of my crimson

blood. Silence now has a curved edge,

warm and delicious it licks across my skin

my palette accustomed to your

embrace, opiate love, in a storm

of ferocious passion, I hear the poison

as it lulls through the shadowed

maze of my mind, and I am lost to

it’s intrinsic beat, a harmony

of ancient touch caressing my soul. Look

here at the constellation of your kisses

as they trail my skin, for all that you are

I hang on the dependency of my need.

I hang upon the dependency of our love

dark and relentless it is the beacon

of my spirit.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words.

#poetslineprompts

lineprompopiate

Peel open my petals. 

Peel back flush pink petals. 

Slide away the outer layer of 

Protection, slip your fingers between

The delicate scent of modesty,

Purity and innocence. Lose yourself

In the fragrant essence of hedonism,

Ripe floral escape dancing

In springs breeze. Gently tease open

The shy blossom of belief, pause

Between the gradient colour hues,

Caress the silken petals beneath. 

Taste the essence of nectar upon

Your fingers, know it’s source upon

Your lips. Patience is any mans 

Virtue, watch in awe as pink

Flesh petals peel open at your 

Finger tips. 
Karen Hayward*©2017

The sensuality of a blank canvas.

There’s no space on the page where my words can settle without burning

the sheet to ash. Speckles of ash that are lifted into the breeze, thoughts

carried away into the universe.

There’s no way to spill the calm of chaos into a logical sentence that can

be read and understood, rarely can the light walkers understand the dark.

There’s no way to create form with a desire that walks on the edge of

nothingness, no perfect Haiku to whisper in code, or sonnet to bumpily

rhyme away sinful thoughts.

Perhaps if I had an invisible pen i could write of the desires, I could tell of

the thoughts that would make even the devil blush.

I could explore the page with a fresh energy, words trailing, thoughts

wandering as do fingers or eye’s or the passion that sits on the

lips of a lover.

Or perhaps, I can write in rhyme safe in the knowledge that the beat will

hide from sight my continual need for you.

Trivialization of such thoughts feels like a form of infedelity to myself, to

the empty space in front of me, to the blank page that can become so

much, yet begs me to not make a liar of it.

Perhaps the emptiness is better than being compliant and trying to force

delicious chaos into some form of normality.

 

Karen Hayward ©2015