A Wanderer Who Lost Directions

 not every door is bolted

nor every window hinged

it is not the dust on the glass

or fog outside

the cold metal of a latch

or the rust on the rails

speak aloud

in a room full of damp spirits

croaking their protest 

seeking the touch of hands

curled in fists

nails digging in the soft flesh

of palms unrelenting 

holding the destiny captive

What does it take to exhale?

Does it make breaths taken in, disappear?

The fear

of being lost torments

the soul, 

always wandering in search.