I am a writer, I am a master of deceit.
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