You put Sunday in your
pocket. Unlike you, I am not
destined for immeasurable acts.
I speak to the stones, to someone like you,
looking up your stairway, into your hallway
of a holy place.
You move to the rooftop,
eyeing the crowd with a distant tear.
I would hold my hands out to you but
your love is criminal, is metal slowly
burning through the streets, congesting
the autumn air.
Why do you devour me
into your sweet, immaculate hell?
You circle me and circle my door with your
smiles and waves
of irresponsible feigned devotion.
I am too soft for such deception.
I am no rock, no easy rider.
Your lies like your beauty
live in me, aimlessly
Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Synchronized Chaos” June 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
i once held sunday
in my pocket,
it held me,
like sinful prophet,
but whispered joys
–promised by better days–