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: