Crumbs Get In The Way

Every little bit counts,
Every crumble added to the rubble,
Right?
It resembles more and more of what you're looking for;
As it ascends up into the heavens,
Where my soul cleaves at night,
Union with the divine,
Purified with water and wine.

Washed up with the tides,
When nothing else is worth, "worth" itself,
It confides in your deepest, darkest place.
That's where you sweep everything, to hide your grace
The Rug, underswept.

White Glove Treatments,
scouring the walls for residual agreements,
prying open your heart, clogged arteries and all
this is the time, to expel the hell
one last minute, last second,
before we fall.

Rise up again,
Count the days ahead - only to win
amounting, 49 plus 1,
each step, like a narrow mountain
climb without tread wind,
where the only effort is to make it
to the end. 

Start back over again,
Immortality until then,
The crumbs get in the way, but I'll be sure
they don't stay.