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Your Voice

 

Your voice

 

is always frantic, shooting like bullets

randomly into the air. Your eyes are electric,

tottering on insanity’s indefinable edge. At the corner,

I see you. Myself, wanting to avoid the face

I once believed in, wanting to slow and vanish

before you lift your head and see me –

bright and unaware of the hesitation I harbour –

pounds in my pockets,

I have nothing to give you but trite formalities

and the illusion of ease.

I have finished with you long ago.

I have been raised up

from my desperation. I carry my lamp, fuelled

by a trust in something better.

Your son, like you, has a beautiful smile.

But in no way can he hide

his drowning – lingering for years on fear’s full shore,

serving his dark mistrust

and the cockroach he keeps under his bed.

Bless you both. Bless you for the green grass you tried to grow.

You reached, but never far enough to make a difference.

I have no hatred. I have no longing. I have only

forgiveness.

 

Copyright © 2010 by Allison Grayhurst

Allison Grayhurst

.

Your voice

 .

 .

is always frantic, shooting like bullets

randomly into the air. Your eyes are electric,

tottering on insanity’s indefinable edge. At the corner,

I see you. Myself, wanting to avoid the face

I once believed in, wanting to slow and vanish

before you lift your head and see me –

bright and unaware of the hesitation I harbour –

pounds in my pockets,

I have nothing to give you but trite formalities

and the illusion of ease.

I have finished with you long ago.

I have been raised up

from my desperation. I carry my lamp, fuelled

by a trust in something better.

Your son, like you, has a beautiful smile.

But in no way can he hide

his drowning – lingering for years on fear’s full shore,

serving his dark mistrust

and the cockroach he keeps under his bed.

Bless you both. Bless you for…

View original post 220 more words

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