The vanishing sequence,

removed like a ghost from

the body whole, now whole

and no longer leaking out

toxic bile of directed hatred

or the spirit-force leaking,

weakening the core, extending

to the appendages. Contained,

aura sealed as it was in the beginning even before

this body, this birth, dreaming in temporal form.


There are no enemies and no significance in battle zones

or winners – it is just a shedding of skin, dead cells

turning into dust, whisked away by a sweep and a soft blow,

a light breeze from a window open, opened,

all parts collected into a singularity. Faith in

the sidewalk turn, in the emptying.


The conquering darkness is placed in a storybook, a tale of long ago

that holds to personal sorrow – raw chafing bonds

of bitterness and regret. Fears become detached,

become a horse in an open field, unclipped from his halter and lead.


It is stronger than charity because

there is no giving, no division

between what is given, what exists and what is received.


It is a dried curled leaf, opened –

the colour cracks and crumbles, its flesh like confetti,

gazed at in awe, dropped and lost, vanishing in luscious folds,

beneath high grassy ground.


© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst



Published in “Setu” February 2018




Published in “The 13 Alphabet – Magazine” February 2018


Published in “On Possibility: Poems and Poetry” February 2018



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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