Over

Under siege like an anthill

invaded upon by an anteater.

Summer is tainted

with humidity and boredom,

intermingled with strong bouts

of unholy despair.

I hear nothing when my hands

are outstretched. I receive nothing

in the hollow of the rock I am

crushed inside of and asked

there, inside of it, to be reborn.

Had I yearning once? Hope? Even

prophecy?

I don’t anymore. For months,

caught in a sticky web transgressing

in spite of rigorous prayers,

crying all the time for no reason

but release.

Time’s up.

Grief has become my skin, not even attached

to external loss, but grafted to my nerves.

impossible to throw off.

It is time now to tear it off,

piece by piece, and peel away what cannot be torn,

and burn what cannot be peeled or torn.

I’m still here, half a soul,

but still a soul

and it is time to claim my territory,

make a story and stay with it.

Light without heat is paint on a canvas,

illusion, no awakening.

Heat up, remembering

I am still here

and I am supposed to be here,

here, listening for a loud-screeching

spawning scream – an ink-spot struggling

creation.

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Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2025

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Raven Cage Zine” December 2025

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1KW0UWFfIqyNpYjP2KeJwmAfDqAIlS-ZD/view?usp=sharing

Click to access RavenCageZine99.pdf

You can listen to the poem below:

Surrendered

In the middle –

steady, harsh waves,

salty flavoured ocean,

stranded, treading.

Love comes smiling.

It is a ghost.

Joy comes and passes by.

Purpose comes but floats by

like a jellyfish riding the momentum.

In the middle, tired of treading,

no escape, just the ebb and flow, surging,

retreating waters. What lies beneath makes

no difference because nothing is above

except the burning brutal sun, cloud cover

occasionally, and only air to eat.

Skin cells, bloating. Eyes, unable to keep

open. In the middle

of an endless abyss, all my happy days

behind me.

I hold my hands in prayer position,

arms raised over my head.

I stop struggling to not go under.

I go under and let that weight, the peace

at last, take me down.

.

Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2025

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

First published in “Synchronized Chaos” February 2026

https://synchchaos.com/synchronized-chaos-first-february-issue-tba/

https://synchchaos.com/poetry-from-allison-grayhurst-17/

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.

You can listen to the poem below:

She

Fear is splendid

in making the body inflamed,

bloated on trepidation at the news

of many meadows burning.

She hurried and found a healer

inside herself, willing to go

the distance and forfeit

personal power for a greater

acquisition.

She understood the traveller and

the sit-at-homer as one in the same,

especially on a stormy day or a year of upheaval.

Faith is the bullseye with no point-marks gained

unless hit dead-centre, directing every focus

to only that centre.

Faith is the wave to ride to the shore,

removed from other moving sources,

like wind and arm-strokes.

She opened herself to fear

not denying it but seeing it

as just another entity

under the canopy, smaller

than the giving sun.

.

Copyright © by Allison Grayhurst 2025

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

.

Published in “Synchronized Chaos” February 2026

https://synchchaos.com/synchronized-chaos-first-february-issue-tba/

https://synchchaos.com/poetry-from-allison-grayhurst-17/

.

.

First published in “Poesy Place” January 2026

https://www.poesyplace.com/she-a-poem-by-allison-grayhurst

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You can listen to the poem below: