open chests and empty hands

clouds rise high like steam off a mug? will someday sunlight illumine a path before us? a narrow trail for wandering souls with open chests and empty hands?

as steam rises
in long meandering chimney curls,
i cannot help but think of all that’s come before and all that still may be.

an unwinding trail of mind, unfamiliar and furled.

my poor feet ache from wandering still. 
the sky thick with branches
is draped in low fogbreath.

footsteps of thought 
follow hopes hollow 
as rotten wood.

no bearings.
no path cleared in the veil of trees. 
trudging through a dismal fray,
i find there’s no balm potent as discovery:
the wandering path hides a hospital wing, 
a recovery from helplessness,
a healing never fully finished. 
helplessness stays
but despair dissipates.

will someday 
clouds rise high like steam off a mug? 
will someday sunlight illumine a path before us?
a narrow trail for wandering souls with open chests and empty hands?