Release this sickness from my spirit,

call me to recuperate,

to be on the verge of a tremendous awakening,

and then to cross over.

       Pluck me from this impending catastrophe.

It is yours to do and no one else’,

to solve the riddle and allow me

to heighten my focus, undistracted by

this draining burden.


In this place, there is silence,

has been for so long, silence enough

to make any atheist gloat,

affirming a barren heaven, denying

everything that does not serve gravity

and inevitable darkness.

       But I am no atheist.

I have felt your ground-shaking tenderness

envelop me, make me yours, eternal.

I have known your great mercy, your personal love,

your taking away what must be gone

and letting stay what I cannot live without.

       But here, in this spawning hell of hopelessness

I cannot find you, cannot hear your

whisper or your guidance out.

I am scared and at the end.


Everyday the birds wake at 4 a.m.

and sing your glory.

I know your glory

       and so I must see

this harrowing hardship as an illusion,

crack this façade

and its senseless insides,

hold it to your light, saturate in your light,

and believe in that light, only.



.Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst


Published in “Open Skies Poetry Anthology” August 2022

Open Skies Poetry Anthology





Published in “New Mystics” July 2022




You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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