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:


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