Grace Poem by Brian Rihlmann

The stunning depths
to which we may fall,
the catacombs
of self loathing
we may plumb,

not climbing
and clawing our way out,
but staying, enduring,
for years,
making a home there,
a life there,
until....

something

turns.

I drink my morning coffee,
raising the cup
cradling that
quivering blackness
to my lips
with bruised fingertips
and broken nails,

toasting those
brave explorers,
those spelunkers of hell.