Deep they are.

Chasms deep, seemingly bottomless, hold despair within them.

Despair, born from ineptness, breeds and grows.

It boils in the darkness, yet has no shape.

Roiling and bubbling, it creates nothing.

Blackened by ignorance it pulls all down with it.

Walls are slick, offering no aid.

The ceiling, a pinpoint of light, offers little to hope.

Smells within the canyons are odorless; the air, sterile.

Yet, the hope of friendship keeps the point of light from fading.

The heart, at one time sobbing, beats heavily with hope.

Happiness has not been forsaken.

A foothold appears against the wall, though small, it is a beginning.

A hand appears in the darkness.

A helping hand?

Bony pale fingers stretch forth, reaching.

Drifting closer to hope they strengthen and become young.

Full with the strength of love, they guide hope toward the foothold.

Cautious, the first step is cautious.

The sides of the canyons are steep.

Careful, careful.

Hope climbs the canyon wall.

The vaporous form pulls free of the seething mess.

The hand rests on hopes back for reassurance.

The pinpoint of light overhead grows brighter.

It reveals a face on the vapor, it is strong.

The canyon walls become less steep.

A ledge appears above.

The helping hand dissolves.

Strength in the vapor resounds in the canyon.

The light is now blinding.

It binds the vapor to the strength.

The canyon wall falls away.

The vapor is now alive.

It stands strong and firm on the good earth.

The sun reveals the face it is, us.