Say good, say goodbye
Bright in the box in the cupboard
where the keepers of conscience and trivia
highjack the pacing depths
to replace it with an easily peeled-off
sheen. It is time to bloom,
to say goodbye to books and playballs of requisitions,
decoding philosophy and revelations in tune
with taking a stance.
Death, I am a robin’s feast with
stalling at the toddler tree
worshiping what is yet to bud.
Death, you made me confused, me,
the revealer of the signs,
mountain-top screamer, fencer for
a fourth-dimensional world.
Flat rocks in a circle, gulls circling
one graveyard, spot
of significant mourning. Faint lines.
But God is solid, exact, without
need of interpretation. Death
is only a layer reached
and removed, when traveled
then traveled through.
Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.