Atoms folding in

We are all broken
fragments of hope,
scattered tirelessly
through times
path across linear
weaving through
planes of existence
here upon Terra.
Poor ageing Terra.

Then Gaia kissed life
into us, the skin
was her canvas
and the scars the
colours as Mother
painted energy
between the deep
rivets adding gentle
brush strokes of
silent hues
and vivid screams
of life.

Her paints run low now,
her waters are dry,
the air dirty,
her creation is
decaying, compromised,
the canvas rotting…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image via WordPress


The universe doesn’t pass time in the moving of seconds,

Instead, the ascending and descending of life events.

First there is birth to the perfect parents. 

Not perfectly good or perfectly rich,

hell they might not even be perfectly hitched.

But for purpose sake, the bond is purposefully stitched. 

Or unstitched in some cases. 

At a soul level you’ll recognise their faces,

past lives leaves scars, freckles, tiny traces. 

Childhood happens, you might be rich you might be poor,

the universe keeps ticking never keeping score,

look around at the beauty, she only wants, that you want more. 

For some there is light, for some of us dark 

and as the grains of sand slip, we all walk a path,

Living becomes a story that leaves another mark. 

Till finally we learn there are lessons at hand, 

Life is a map only our souls know the plan,

from the moment of birth when Terra began.

They’ll be tears, they’ll be hurt and boy they’ll be pain, 

they’ll be days when we count seconds by the drops of grey rain,

and some of us sadly, will be driven insane. 

But alas time must trickle through the portals neck,

as we eat, pray, play, work and slumber in bed,

Till finally we wake, then we are led.

For each soul that wanders for each mind that grows, 

lessons are delivered knowledge is sown, 

and time passes by in a constant flow. 

Some of us lucky our lessons we learn, 

twin flames found at the very first turn. 

Some of us feel time, feel time, as each second burns, 

time hesitates, stammers and screams, 

we can’t figure out what the symbols mean, 

we can’t make sense of the time that has been. 

The universe doesn’t pass time in the beating of hands, 

time is explored through our souls and their plans, 

some paths we can’t and some paths we can. 
Karen Hayward ©2016