road repairs ahead

groping
    in the grotto
                of my days,
       the entrance capped
       by that avalanche of
                       grudges
           too heavy to
                            move,
my life slowly ebbs;

cornered
       in the catacombs
             by the hounds of
                    hell,
         their foul breath
                  of fear
     sucking all
         the air out of my
                 lungs,
            as the workers
         of death mortar
                    me in;

stumbling
       in the sepulcher's
                      shadows,
       tripping over my own
                        despair,
          until my shredded fingertips
                find the rock of rages
                sin has slammed
                           shut
                   over my hopes . . .

. . . until you came this
                      morning,
          rolling every stone
                       away,
          using them to pave the
                         way
              to the
                    kingdom.

© 2012 Thom M. Shuman