The voice breaks down
into tiny fragments, each
filled with a unique harmony,
some clash in reckless bawls,
others fill with a steady fever.
The voice collects itself, gains frenzy
like a stallion no one could tame or mount.
The voice claims death, as even in death
it will not be defeated or subdued,
but will grow like waves in a storm, crash
and come back, rising, swallowing the shore
as it wakes.
The voice is a raging giant wanting fleshy dream,
rejecting limitations, leadership
from a reasoning baritone.
The voice outweighs imprisonment,
carnivorous oppression and the sighs
of consuming cancer.
The voice is tall
for its years.
The fabric it wears
is from the entrails of fate,
from the sinews of predictive design.
It has no cause and effect,
as it shouts out its riddle, its savage roar.
You can’t confront it and win.
You can’t pollute it with existential doubts.
It grips the universal jugular
with its teeth and claws,
digs in, utterly enjoying
the bloodied feast.
Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Across The Margin” July 2022
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: