Ascending

It's a wretched ladder,
with rungs that snap away,
pit walls leech cold clay
as I sculpt panic.
Some shadows only know darkness,
afraid of what they will make
take shape.

Where is the light?
the struck match of truth.
Only the loose-bulb tap
of a flash-light
can guide me towards clarity.

The scent from a warming sun
carries the seed-heads of belief,
elevated bright to walk across
the silver threads of this new day.

I won't look down again,
my face bathes beneath its touch.
A foot on the neck of doubt,
a sealed stone lid,
grinding as it slides open.

I can feel these moments calling
and I will choose to rise.