The darkness crashed

on a sapling morality,

cracked pretensions and then hope.

It was two-fold, folding the

young visionary and the tired warrior –

into one power, depleted, elapsed.


It weakened a once flourishing joy, skillful

in its demise, necessary for what was

born after – compassion in harvest,

a home well built

on any hard or soft shore.


Raise the clock, break its hands,

snatch immortality from the arms

of culture.

Tiny dreams are gold. Trust in those dream,

even more golden.


Fast, faster in the circle –

run of linear time, gleam fastest

at the summit

at the nadir,

and commit to only love.



Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst



.First published in “Orange Blush Zine” September 2020



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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