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.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Itโ€™s 4pm. Iโ€™m still in bed. Beyond the double duvet another world awaits: the app proclaims a world at 11C. Outside the solid walls frosty catsโ€™ whiskers gleam under scattered street light. It is getting dark again. I remain hidden.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Is there such a thing as morbid irony,
planning the aftermath of the day the ticking stopped,
planning the unwinding of the clock,
then merely wait
โ€“ for the silence

Poetry Drafts / / By

So many decisions to make; but not today. Tonight I will dine on liquorice and juniper juice, the Dutch courage flowing, and tomorrow I might decide on another future; another path towards infinity and the shadowlands beyond. There is much to decide, too much haze to find a path, less trodden or not.

Copyright ยฉ 2021 @behind-the-veil-of-sanity / Hayden Veil

Poetry Drafts / / By 
So many decisions to make; but not today. Tonight I will dine on liquorice and juniper juice, the Dutch courage flowing, and tomorrow I might decide on another future; another path towards infinity and the shadowlands beyond. There is much to decide, too much haze to find a path, less trodden or not.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
I carry paranoia in a black briefcase,
brown empty envelopes
creased stained sheets to be signed 
brown paper bags;
my stained tie reeks of brown sauce 
blue blood and paranoid thoughts
of wind and windows and roofs 
soaring across a stormy sky,
and creaking ceilings
and creaking floors
and creaking doors 
โ€” locked. 

I carry paranoia in a black briefcase,
on a black unwanted tie and in a mind 
bent on creaking.

Poetry Drafts / / By

Bowl of Chili. Dollop of sour cream. Cheddar cheese. Corn spoons! Good end to a shitty day.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Twilight and fog 
descending a powdered pond. 
A frozen bird, wings still and silent 
shivering shakes and cold cravings;
a frozen man, shivering, 
shaking and cursing a foggy brain. 
In winter months of dreaded darkness
beware beware beware:
going cold turkey
carry a pernicious penalty
as death looms in a twilight
โ€“ far beyond the fog.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
I hid my secrets, 
like a childhood leaf 
pressed between faded pages. 

I hid my secrets 
betwixt two untouched pages 
numbered 41 and 42. 

I hid my secrets
like the childhood cat that ran away
โ€“ never to be found 

I hid my secrets in books I wrote,
my untouched leaves withering 
โ€“ cat-less to the end

Poetry Drafts / / By 
No purpose, no path; strings attached to a dummy, neither brave nor nummy; a broomstick sweeps the endless fields; cows caw and fish fly:

chirp. chirp. 

Cows caw, and fish fly. 

Oink.

There is grandeur in the face of pork pies. Saucy plates left too cold. I would like to grab their attention and file a formal complaint. But NO โ€ฆ there are roadblocks and too much suffering: oink. 

I find purpose in oven cleaning. Cutting ties. Coating a Self in cinnamon and almond, ground without additional spice. Cayenne is not a spice, it is life swimming through the skies
โ€” cawing.
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