Lost in a Garden
Subjugated, they seduced your ego,
abducted your history
until nothing remained but a gap,
a secret left too long untold.
You have a face, a bed to lay
your death mask and examine
the tears that slip
from that counterfeit depth.
Morning is vivid, it attacks you
with its beauty, but you are stitched
together by pale craftsmen who know their trade
If only the years would end with a final blow,
then you could rid yourself of
that blunt nameless ache,
too rare to resurrect
into symbolic meaning.
On the back of the moon,
you let the vision go
for a prize that had no gain.
They came to you with soft sighs that belittled freedom.
You believed: A fool
who knew the souls of each and every star
then stooped to touch the Earth
in all its pointless fury.
All is private. Your confessional
hands will disappear.
They need you now to smile
in spite of your personal storm.
Do not despair. Heal.
You know whose side you’re on.
Copyright © 1991 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Ygdrasil – A Journal of the Poetic Arts” July 2018
Published in “Academy of the Heart and Mind” 2018
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