What is this echo that seeps beneath my skin, dragging me beyond through the gates of sin. What is this whisper you place upon my name tempting me to wander away from the tame. A darkness that speaks to my soul tainted thoughts I once did know. Abandonment of reality into a world seeped in fantasy. Lust? Does lust echo in the whispered thoughts of morality? Oh angels that walks the darkest paths, what is this spell you have placed upon me.
KH©2016
*clearing draft box.
There is a world on your
door step meant for you.
Filled with the passions
of desire and the fire of love.
It will consume your every
breath and your soul will
dance to a glorious beat
that vibrates through the
milliseconds of eternity.
And when you find it all
hate will leave your heart
and you will know,
and you will know.
KH©2016
I am an artist. I am a writer. I am a child of fantasy and I weave deceit through silken ties of beauty to create for you a truth, a version of truth, a lie, a lie that spins from my tongue covered in the purest honey nectar. Take my hand let me create for us a utopia of love submerged beneath oceans of emerald green sprinkled with the dust of a thousand purest diamonds. Ooh how we will dance in the cool ebbing tide of love beneath the golden rays of an eternal sun, flames flickering as we frolick. I am a writer, a master of deception, let me weave for you a beauty that transcends the oceans of time as stars illuminate our skies and darkness creeps across our naked skin caressing the contours of our souls as they entwine beneath the pearlescent glow of a loving moon. I am an artist, I am a writer, I am trained in the art of observation, I am master of the tails I spin, I am the master of deceit. I am the devil in the guise of an angel my words are the armoured wall that shrouds me so I may craft in peace perfect fantasies to appease. I am a writer, I am an artist, I am the pure light you believe exists, innocence the essence of my soul the gentle whisper that tickles across a spring breeze as dawn wakes and night leaves. Piercing eyes of distraction, soft lips of need, porcelain skin of vulnerability from upon my cloud of fantasy, I, see, all. I watch and learn, I listen and read I follow the paths of intentions hidden behind words, mismatch them. I can paint any picture of poetic perfection, I can map human behaviour, read the nuances understand the subtle hints and with perfect understanding I hear the things not uttered. And I learn, and I learn. I am an artist, I am a writer I am a master of deceit.
Karen Hayward ©2016
Familiar Beacon by Michael Garland and Karen Hayward
He wears a mask
When your soul reaches out
Hides a past winter filled with doubt
An erasure of care that should’ve last
Did he walk away?
Did he ever care
Don’t accept that he’s an ass?
He gave the silken blade a silent twist?
Stole your thunder left only mist
No hint of grin neath the porcelain pain
Hides deceit hidden disdain
He rides a lame horse that wants you his equal
A different dawn shines a different sequel
Lay with me beneath the first white tree
I’ll show you truth,
How love was meant to be
Shut the door to a failed past
Live this one-day proper
Just one memory to last
Armor from mundane care
I am your kindred one
I’ve known you forever
A love that will last
Shelter from foul weather
My failed past has led me to you,
the echo of your thoughts have transcended
the boundaries of time whispering an ethereal truth.
I am stained with the harsh scribblings of indifference;
my wings tattered from the constant fight of resistance.
Yet my flame burned always, to light your way.
Beneath the first white tree together we lay.
I searched the night stars looking for you,
searching to find the only love that is true.
I am yours in an ancient melody
Whispers of love
More than a memory
© Michael Garland and Karen Hayward 08/14/2016
© Image Michael Garland
Your bitter tincture does it
unfurl with your venomous
tongue as you hiss? Were you
heady with power as you spat
profanities? You slipped up,
a unanimous moment, your
mask slipped.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Say it again please
for I can no longer fathom
the definition of this word.
The letters have been over
used and are worn at the edges
their transparency is a beacon
for poetic verse.
You are the splendor in my rage.
You are the hate upon my page.
Karen Hayward ©2016
I’ll fail. I’ll self destruct an explosion of magnitude that will shatter the foundations of my existence. I am me. I am the past I run from, I am the fire I dampen. I am the anger that stirs, I am not the reflection. I am me and I hover precariously indifferent to the damage, I am the phoenix I will burn in the embers I will rise from the ash. I am me, I will fail, I am the past that I run from and this light does not belong to me.
Karen Hayward ©2016
love 