upper room

from the corners
of our doubts
come the claustrophobic
mutterings:
'it's their fault . . .
. . . how many times . . .?'

in the solace
of the shadows,
fingers stiffen in accusation:
'i wasn't the one . . .
. . .you said you would never . . .!'

fear
churns the room,
as we wait for
hate's hobgoblins
to jump out, yelling,
"BOO!!!"

then
you come,
parting our tears
to bring us out
of grief's slavery;

putting your finger
in our fissured faith
to make it whole;

breathing
"Peace"
sweet, simple
unimaginably
unlimited
peace . . .

(c) 2008 Thom M. Shuman