All Hands Down
written by: Allison Grayhurst
@AGrayhurst
Into the seams of non-existence
the cherished expectations of life descend
like a mother who loses her infant to the
turning of time, or a seed its husk
in May’s noon light.
There are heights to head towards,
compacted by the weight of reality’s call,
and a carpet to tread, unfamiliar with your footsteps.
In August, the summer will soon be over. It is
the shadow that falls from electrical wires that makes you sink
into a moment without hope. It is watching sparrows
on eavesdrops that removes you from your daily struggles
and puts the flower back in its perfect place.
Waking to dread like a wave that pulls you under
every morning, motioned by the same ten-year cause,
and all the time you know the grave awaits you like every other,
and it is just a matter now of growing old.
The street is still, even in late morning.
The buttercups have not yet bloomed.
You hear the wounded at your doorstep.
You have stopped waiting, but even that is not enough
to see you through.
- Down Stream - March 27, 2021
- Watchman Of The Night - August 14, 2017
- Living With Myself - June 16, 2017
