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: