Tear and rip and proclaim

a path you cannot follow

but can taste its every nuance.

Bend into its horizon as though it

were yours, there on glorious display.


When change does not come, and it sleeps

like a long clouded-over moon, and spirits

are bones sucked of their marrow –

the most vital of these eaten by mechanical doom –

metal teeth and the turning, turning

of grinding eventuality, wait

and watch the images come and go.


The windows are stained

and there is no way to clean them.

Through them I see growth.

I see days I long for that may not come

for another decade, where I will be free.

What is a day? But this thing done, this thing not done.

What is a life? Stealing wakefulness violently

from slumber, pressing into joy

despite the chains and another

book is read. All dreams are singular. Know

the in-breath counts. The out-breath is simply




Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst



First published in “Synchronized Chaos” May 2022



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:


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