From the lava gilded granite arch that ghouls at the entrance to hell
At all but the last measure of helpless, and, having looked
Nearly too long into the hopeless abyss,
I turn around, knees shorn to their chalky pain, grinding out the pivot,
And what’s left of my spine, I strain aching muscles in the direction
Of what seems an all too dim light, so much dimmer
Than I remember it being before I looked away.
I reach out for the bottom rung of a ladder miraculously waiting,
Hanging, suspended from I-know-not-what up in the light,
The ladder is made of Crosses,
And I am going to make the comeback of my lifetime.