Author name: Hayden Veil

In an earlier incarnation, Hayden Veil enjoyed a successful career in software engineering, writing late-night poetry in pursuit of sanity. On 2 February 2020, the world of Hayden Veil changed: Ghosts became real and with its soul laid bare there was no turning back from the perpetual path of poetry.

ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME

Poetry Drafts / / By

I’ve walked the tranquil paths of the magical forests. With fairy and gnome I’ve hugged threes of old, felt the connection to the mother of all. Felt being alive in a place of life, that just keeps on living.

I’ve huffed and puffed and struggled for days but I’ve sat on the summit, on the top of the world. I’ve see it’s beauty on a cloud free day. I’ll huff again for the vastness and expanse.

Over fields and meadows so far stretching with no beginning nor end. Flowers bloom. Butterflies swarm. I’ve lay down, made new life and sneezed so hard ached for days. But I’d sneezy any day for pick-nicks in the shadow of the oaken trees.

I’ve swam the oceans, floated on the calmest seas, dived he clearest waters I’ve waved to puffy fish and sunken ships. A small step for man but a giant stride for me. Ascending back to reality, frozen stiff, I just wanted to get back in, lightweight and floating effortlessly.

I’ve raced through forest, on winding roads, on stretches of tarmac straighter than the sight to the moon. Speed guns would break, a divine feeling riding with death between your legs accelerating from nought to an orgasmic laugh. But the journey ends, the keys removed, I find myself longing for more, much more.

Inevitably at the of the day I end up somewhere else. It is a place I never choose to go, but one that I can never leave. It’s the quicksand pulling me down, holding tighter. It is the concrete boots in the harbour. The chains in dungeons if old. A place of solitary confinement.

It is a lonely place.

A SLIGHT HUMP ON HIS BACK

Poetry Drafts / / By

If you passed him in street you wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Properly dressed, semi-polished shoes and a slight limp perhaps. But put on your sunglasses, you knew the ones that makes you see a bit more, the psychic ones. You would notice a slight hump on his back, looking a bit like a rucksack. Focus your mind and you’d start to see the contents.

There are tracks among the layers of words, words thought over and over until they could never be spoken.

There are twisted paths through dark forests, where the howling wind thwarts common sense to prevail, insanity reigns.

There are bruises, cuts and open chronic wounds from the words spoken in anger, resentment and the moments of silence when nothing was said – for days.

There are pockets full of breadcrumbs, mouldy and green, forgotten and never used. Had they been he might never lost his way, and never been led astray.

There are rocks and boulders gathered over the years to build the castle where he’d live out his days with his Queen of choice.

There are letters never opened and post cards never sent. Phone calls never answered, and bells tolling death.

Now remove your sunglasses, and take another look. You notice the crooked back, the face all wrinkled and scarred. His tired eyes looks up at you, yearning for forgiveness – begging to be reborn.

IN DIRE NEED OF COMPANY

Poetry Drafts / / By

There was an apparent lack of life in the space between the unpainted walls, not even spiders hid there anymore.

He had pondered long and hard on how to improve on these set of circumstances and it finally dawned on him:

Keeping rotting bodies uncovered, flies would eventually come buzzing, and he wouldn’t be alone any more.

He grabbed his axe and left the house – humming his favourite tune.

Beggars can’t be choosers

Poetry Drafts / / By

Beggars can’t be choosers
the saying goes but
I often ponder
why Bots “like” my writing and
follow my blogs just
because I used a word or
phrase like chocolate or wine or
travelling maps but with
yesterday’s addition
“ladies handbags”
I must take heed to
try and keep my writing out
of the commercial scope
for good

SERENDIPITY KNOCKED

Poetry Drafts / / By

With chance meetings

anticipation resurfaced,

Serendipity knocked and

he answered the door.

She showed him the road

of inevitability,

spending the years

getting to know,

aligning quirks

with quirks,

wondering,

wandering,

withering

away.

It was the only

road he would

ever know.

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