Shell of a Serpent
These are great things,
with your mounting neglect.
They are things cast out
of the “beautiful”, that
dig into polar ice and
fossilize there; numb,
And though you feel superior,
inhuman, hovering above
like the moon, with your face carved
in one constant expression, you yourself
will not give light to the
lonely, will not illuminate
for the sake of another’s need.
Your own pain – cunning, hunting – is
a tentacle that quivers cold-blooded
for pity’s gullible caress.
You distance your heart from the humble dancers.
Copyright © 1997 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Whispers…” November 2015
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
“Allison’s poetic prose is insightful, enwrapping, illuminating and brutally truthful. It probes the nature of the human spirit, relationships, spirituality and God. It is sung as the clearest song is sung within a cathedral by choir. It is whispered as faintly as a heartbroken goodbye. It is alive with the life of a thousand birds in flight within the first glint of morning sun. It is as solemn as the sad-sung ballad of a noble death. Read at your peril. You will never look at this world in quite the same way again. Your eye will instinctively search the sky for eagles and scan the dark earth for the slightest movement of smallest ant, your heart will reach for tall mountains, bathe in the most intimate of passions and in the grain and grit of our earth. Such is Allison Grayhurst. Such is her poetry,” Eric M. Vogt, poet and author.
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.