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

personal concern.


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:

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