The battleground of silence

If her words are to be cut from her tongue, if her silence is to be cut from her soul, she has only her ink. The solace of her page, the sombre flow of thoughts carved into yesterday’s canvas. The freedom of poetic expression…said here, said there, the effect is the same. The cause falls on blind eyes, a defensive soul guarding against… The only one he needs not. For those words silenced in reprimand wanted not to talk of command, demand or dictating, just love. A silence that wished not to hurt, offend or harm found an unwanted battle ground of misunderstanding and trust questioned on the balance beam of expectations, emotions, a kaleidoscopic rainbow of scars
itching to rip open, and she is not trusted to itch them, she is not trusted to express the way they scratch, they bleed, perhaps such a thing is for children, for the weak..for they are the adults. Then she stands in all her glory for she holds no shame in her weakness. Her silence sought only his love, the tender touch of his words the reassuring tone of primal need on carnals vice. His defence, guarded, angered.. the unnescasary ripples of his own scars, as he scratched them into life. For an unexpressed thought will ricochet through existence slowly crumbling foundations. A recipe for disaster, one part love, one part lust, one part the closed eyes of a pretence, a locked vault of despair, a curse she never once wished upon him, never had she bound his tongue never had she silenced his silence. She holds all trust in their love, all belief in their truths. In the silence of no words said, she ponders the irony that of all the things he did not trust, it was her need to express without consequences to him, her need to understand the pain that drives, her need to have the freedom to be vulnerable, safe in the knowledge he’d catch her…

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Photo

Cleaner reqiured

If I gather up
the cracked
pieces of
timeless
porcelain,
the shattered
grains of soul,
the shards of
spirit, the
chipped remains
of identity…
With my heart
in pieces;
perhaps you
could help me
tidy them into
neat piles of
rationality, dust
away the insanity.
Fill the voids
with self believe,
polishing them
with self confidence
long lost in the
devils hour.

Karen Hayward* ©2018

To burn like pale fires.

Would you? Momentarily
pull me in close, stem
the void of noise, imbue upon
me the soft silence of
sanctuary. Validation is
such an annoyance of
need, desired yet stubborn
denial, fierce, yet. . .
vivid rainbow of chaos that
hides pale technicolor
aura. I am gentle as
much fierce, soft as
much hard, pure as much
erotic. Paused breath
I breathe in silent wisps
reading the world through
silent eyes. Would you?
Hold me as the Sun ascends,
descends, glittered trails
of desire lost in woken’s
dawn, I hear now the
ebbing flow of life’s
ethereal lake, and some days,
some days I am the lioness,
the wolf, the flames of Hell
fire and the essence of
desire that burns
within me. But other day
I am merely the falling
petals of the tuberose
delicate, fragrant,
pure, essence lost without
protection from the
elements.

Karen Hayward (c)2017 Image and words

Falling tears

Will you catch my tear?
When beneath a soothing
moon in the dark shadows
of alone they fall. Will you
catch them, gently, collect
them in pretty jars to
place on dusty shelves
and keep them out of sight.
Will you embrace my pain
caress its sharpened edges
and accept my broken
weakness. Will you catch
my tear? Hold within
your palm my vulnerable
existence, will you share
with me this experience.
Where no man has seen
the falling of my tears,
will you catch them, please?
Will you love them as you
love me.. . . will you?

Karen Hayward ©2017

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Like that…

“Don’t be like that”
like what? What is ‘that?’
I wonder if that is the furthest
we have stood, speaking in
tongue, two separate languages
the past converged into those
words.
Is your ‘that’ the same as mine?
perhaps yours
carries a heavier burden
for why speak of my thoughts
if they hold no value.
Why tell you that my ‘that’
was days of the clock pulling
you from me. . . or
perhaps each step was a choice
you made. Or that my
‘that’ is the knowledge that
I’m to be a kept secret whilst
others stand at your side.
Perhaps mine was just
the crevices of my shadows
screaming to be loved
beyond my pornographic
mouth and pulled tight into
the grasp of everything.
To be everything

Karen Hayward ©2017

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I am the silk of the dew soaked web

img_20161212_091835.jpg

… the gentle calm
within
intrigues me
a chaos you knew would
exist,
quenched,
sated
by your words?
Or innocent intent…

… or is it that I find
your soul in the
mornings mist
embracing me
holding me
loving me
at my side
as it has been since
the start.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

In silence there after, I hear storms rage,
past scars itch, thoughts blur to reality
beauty pageant upon life’s cruel stage
Such perfect specimens they are not me.

Does one occur without the others truth,
If the vessel lacks purpose beyond need
found in another’s form, t’is thoughts a rue,
expenditure of the purposeful seed

Alas, always will haunt me lifes shadow
the silent whisper of empty value
in a graveless cemetery I’ll know
wandering thoughts of them naked with you.

The cross bow of spirit fighting hearts soul,
Is it love or sex, the ultimate goal

Karen Hayward ©2018 image and words