Wide In His Chains
Under the cliff of
drunk on abstractions and
a feeling muse.
Battleships soared through his
Impossible loneliness attacked like
painting his jealous seasons
His was a tender style, loving equally
the hideous and the brave.
He was punished for his ruthless poetry, exiled
for his ecstasy-grip
Those hands were tendrils, latching on
to what others feared.
His music drove on through
toward a prophetic morning,
Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “New Mystics” May 2018
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