on the last step, from
the last step.
No openings, breath holes.
Rigid boards, brick work
for miles, and infestation
in the corners, under
Call me a dreammaster,
someone to remind me
who owns me and how much
I am actually worth.
The landscape begins,
first in ice-cream tones
of frosted blue and whites,
then into a rich mustard yellow
and animated dark purple.
Seeing this on the cold walls, under
false lights and a dreary atmosphere,
consuming, watching duties
done, lacking eloquence or
Guide me into your soundproof room,
tempt me with insanity, then
let my accusations be muffled
until they are inaudible.
A clean bill of health,
health in every salutation.
Days spent spawning music and shrines
to whatever passes as holy.
Days showered with talkative sparrows,
no spots left to rot or grow a putrid stench,
just small spillages, here, there,
easily wiped, not worthy of
being recalled or inducing
a lengthy tortured conversation.
Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Across The Margin” July 2022
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: