Exit Door Closed
because the flame is still holy
but the moon’s cold cloak
Leaning into the crossing over,
sweet exhaustion, the love of
Is this what the fish feels
after minutes on the hook, on the dock,
or the rat gasping in the trap,
lunging, flailing before finding
the peace of death?
Fear is not a name, keeps no company with surrender.
Holding the reset rose in my hand. I see colours
that please me, the brush stroke of renewal
and a house true to its inheritance.
Every hero eventually dies,
and their mourning is made
into a ritual.
Light of God, kinder than a mother’s wing,
richer than the formation of a new constellation.
My arms are enough,
even my meagre successes seem sufficient,
infused with Your light,
taking away the pressure of existence,
keeping pace with duties
and the honouring of dreams.
Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Synchronized Chaos” September 2020
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: