How do I receive a future,
inheritor of such
a dense darkness?
Healing is spared, the sunburn
grows into a rash and takes over
the possibility for stillness, sanity.
Everyday I am splintered, struggling
to conquer the dominant strain
lacerating my equilibrium with
its anarchy and drive.
I see the black hole conjunct
with the sun, transitions
that can transform any wound
into a terrifying progression.
I embody lethargy as the renouncer of hope
in the afternoons where there is nothing
Fantasy is not a future, not
a worthy evaluation, though hypnotic
in its almost tangible relief.
It is not about an unfortunate circumstance,
but about the journey of my faith,
the validity of miracles
and God’s gracious love.
Sing me a future. Do I believe?
Do I step down from all insight
and fall into an agnostic stand-still?
Do I accept this nullifying reality,
impenetrable, embrace meaninglessness
and lose my final ground?
Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst
.Published in “Open Skies Poetry Anthology” August 2022
First published in “New Mystics” July 2022
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