Silent as a predator
on the far side of a hill
nearing, reality inches closer,
hungry and stealth.
Days inside a half-grown dream
nurturing this ideal that is unable
to fully mature and tower.
This hallway fills with sludge,
that hallway with toxic fumes,
and another with mealy worms searching
for a host to infest and consume.
If I stand still none will take me
but movement happens without my accord,
time decides, aligns everything to its filthy trade.
I see with one eye – linear. I can hope but
my hope is made of straw. I can grow, but in
growing I condemn myself even more when again
I will be trapped and reduced.
I can burst through in my mind.
In my mind, I can leave these ruins,
take flight, take shelter,
wilt the taste of defeat,
cover the lamp and pretend I hear
soft chords, harmonies
Copyright © 2022 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Winamop” June 2022
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: