Short Rungs Poems

Rungs

Closed up in the open air,
one foot deep in the dirt,
the other stepping away from its grave.
The wishing prayers of generations
promise only more of the same.
Sometimes I am a trapdoor for the sky,
sometimes a broken rung.
I don’t have the holiness of a sparrow,
I'm not put together that simple.
My God is the God of broken Ladders.