To be the poet of the darkness.
How very blessed I am as I spill thoughts upon a blank canvas
my soul the ink of my heart. I can weave magical worlds of
mystic glory, Celtic horizons, white knights ..dark knights,
beautiful enchantresses lost beneath celestial skies in divine
mortality upon liquid gold lakes of glory. Oh how very blessed
my fingers are to entangle the beauty of a dark and dying world.
But lest I ever forget with great glory comes great responsibility.
I can coarsely stitch together the etched pains of manipulation,
prostitute sinfully my soul upon sacred markings of envy,
spit, gracefully, callously poison darts at the heart of of my victim,
pulling at silken threads held by a puppeteers fair hand
my fingers stained with the blood of deceit, the sweat of ego
as my spoiled soul tantrums at the indignation and
mere whisper of loneliness. And oh such responsibility
comes at the hand of a poet.
Karen Hayward ©2016