Open Hands

Hands lie open upon my lap, receptacles for the unknown. An ancient stool shudders under my weight.

A step forward, giving much needed rest to clenched fists raised upwards.

Peaceful resignation. Perhaps even clarity. Whatever should come to rest must also be held lightly.

Naked at the start. Naked too, whenever I depart. My need to control, tempered, shackled, dull iron wrapped around my ambitions.

Wayfarers smirk at my effort, silent in their observance, my own form shrouded, a clouded mirror refusing my reflection. 

Dusty beams stream through cracked panes, remembrance offers faltering hope.