Great Breather, reach down from your pinnacle,
blessing all you touch or pass in reaching,
and reach me, grasping with your tentacle,
claw, hand, hoof, or paw, and without preaching
simply lift me from this cave of howling
wind—its cold, dark walls hemming my body
and psyche in crushing shame, my scowling
heart palpitating no hope no shoddy
hope no hope—your merciful grip casting
out pain and memory, deeming only
instant knowing, feeling everlasting
warmth of your eyelight, no longer lonely,
no longer gashed by spirit’s whiplash (cost
of gnashing fear), no longer lost soul lost.
Roger Armbrust
August 1, 2009
