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You walk

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the branches.

 

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

 

cutting.

 

 

 

Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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Published in “Synchronized Chaos” June 2018

https://synchchaos.com/synchronized-chaos-june-2018/

http://synchchaos.com/poetry-from-allison-grayhurst-6/

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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