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: