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Wide In His Chains
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Under the cliff of
winter clouds
his hands
were born,
drunk on abstractions and
a feeling muse.
Battleships soared through his
ransacked-mind.
Impossible loneliness attacked like
a vulture,
painting his jealous seasons
morphine blue.
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
bombshell screams
toward a prophetic morning,
desired.
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Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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Published in “New Mystics” May 2018
http://newmystics.com/lit/AllisonGrayhurst.html
Click to access AllisonGrayhurst-Poems4.pdf
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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Absolutely BEAUTIFUL. 💞