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Five Days by Allison Grayhurst

 

 

Five days without belief,

lost like a pebble tossed into

a deep stream.

My prayers have turned grey, culled by

despair – there but not really there.

Every ghost has come in, crowding

my upper floors. In the wastebins, in the filing cabinets,

my hands have been scraped

and there they fell – two dead weights,

lacking the strength to be lifted.

Like something left out

of the fridge for too long, my taste has

been tainted. God is a soft echo in the open air.

I hear words, but words I cannot formulate

or beckon to come near.

Five sunsets in black and white.

Five days to give in and die or to hold tight

to the thread string, the little string, the are-you-there?-string,

to hold on and commit to never return here

for all my days remaining.

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