I wield Excalibur at twilight spirits.


A deep throb, thumping
within my temples.
Beating. Beating. Beating.
Then the rain, thrashing,
lashing, crashing.

I am reminded of
promises made and
promises broken.
Sat alone in pitch
black shadows

Edging ever closer
White illuminated skies
haunting rolls, deep angry
growls howling screams
plunged into darkness.

I have become my
own saviour, I wield
Excalibur at twilight
spirits, creeping
shadows and thunder.

Silence disturbed
only by cars dispersing
the puddles. There is hope.
Storms pass and skies clear
After all. Suspicion becomes me.

Sleep, the world’s answer
to all problems, eyes
fearful, wild, the lone wolf
or delicate deer, sleep is a
wish not made by my fear.

Rain humming static lullaby
melodic symphony, celestial
skies alit, the deep roar felt
within, scattering to my core.
Pitch black.
Reality for sure.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017

Image found on Pinterest

When lingers the hint of bad dreams on the minds tongue. 

Sleep evades me as twilight calls to me deep within my dreams. The ancient whisper of darkness taunts me from inside the shadows It’s cold fingers clawing at my skin, vivid imagery seeping g into lucidity. A starless sky the dark side of the moon searches for new souls to capture, a feast upon which deaths rapture. Sleep has become but a distant echo in the void of today’s existence. Some days my insomnia is so very insistent. 
Karen Hayward*©2017

Tears to the twilight moon.


*from draftbox

Night falls,

rains drown out

hollow screams of death.

I watch the moon from afar.

A slither of light between

dark storming clouds

she whispers my name.

I dance upon her rays.

Darkness creeps about

my soul, caressing

hidden contours of my

porcelain skin.

I tell the moon my secrets.

She listens,


never leaves my sight.

She listens to my cries

at all times of the night.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Black feathers surrounding me.

The windows are painted with diamond encrusted raindrops and I am reminded of Sundays stood at the back door looking out at concrete and the heavy black emergency iron stairs that hurt my feet so much when I walked down them bare footed, still I walked them without shoes for I was a teenager and iron stairs could not defeat me. And I am reminded of the fold away stool that sat beneath the breakfast bar with the brown cord seat. I think of you, Nick, and our plates of savoury rice covered in butter. Your wings out stretched black feathers surrounding me, we are laying together in that old Victorian house, at the height of summer, our bodies hot and sweaty we sipped on cider as a breeze whispered through the balcony doors. A storm rumbles in the distance, we play music loudly, flashes penetrate the room so we lay naked beneath the glaring light that casts away all shadows. I wonder still now did we sleep at all that night or did the hours tick away among the silence of two broken souls finding solace in the twilight hours. That summer soon ended and I bid a farewell to the brown cord stool and the concrete garden that I had spent hours bouncing a ball in. That was the summer of change as your black feathers shielded me from reality allowing my soul time to rest and heal, as I rose once again to my feet, you bid farewell sealing our time with a kiss that spoke more words than either one of us had ever been capable of.

Karen Hayward ©2016.