A sister lost
to a mad-weave calamity,
hanging off the platform,
an ego-dream of dumb self-importance
– the war on truth that
masks its face as though it were truth,
but is only a gate to an easy explanation,
a system of hellish accusations and propped
up pillars of false justice, combating fake forms,
urging anger forefront, poisoning
by such a sure promise of victory.
I send you sleeping sister. You say
I am sleeping and you twist your conspiracy theories
into a cloak of great magnitude, condescend,
so confident of your place of holy honour.
You jumped over the mark, missed it
and plunged into an upside-down dream of realty.
Once, a sister, a comrade, an unbreakable bond, broken.
I cannot see you. You cannot see the evil
you have wrapped in fool’s gold,
as you measure your worth
by this aggressive attack on truth, denying
the wind, a child’s cry, a mother’s redemption.
Sister, I loved you, I still do,
but you have crossed the line.
It is terrifying to watch.
It is a shock to finally see
who you have become.
You took the plunge
long before I accepted your choice.
By your choice, your inner conflict
became an accelerant bile-fire,
you became a plurality, parts, parts
condemned to feed off
find entertainment, immaculate purpose
in unbalanced passions and impulses,
claiming a cure by creating a disease.
Copyright © 2020 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Our Poetry Archive” October 2020
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