Hope is not a thing with feathers made of dust and light and air
Hope is more than warmish embers in the dark of your despair
Hope is not a gentle feeling when it's all that keeps you sane
It's the match that burns your fingers, waiting, desperate for the flame
To catch and glow and brighten, warm, and safely grow as fed,
But still the match burns shorter while the tinder's cool and dead
I'm hanging by a thread and you would make it feather down?
It's steel because I say it's so, the strongest stuff around.
It doesn't perch, or sing or coo, content with inner grace
I've got it in a stranglehold, my breath held in its place
While I turn white or mottled blue, I'll still cling tightly there
Dry ice that burns my hands while sublimating into air
Fear of failure, bleak Despair, may be the antonym for Hope
But Doubt is what can break it down, untie the thrice-wound rope
That lashes you to firm belief, the ballast in the storm
It eats away at courage and is treacherous in form.
Hope is life, Hope is strength, Hope's a flare over the sea
Hope is not a gentle feeling when I need it to be me.
Hope is tenuous, soon to be abandoned.
ReplyDeleteHope is a false friend, proferring what will not be delivered.
Hope is eternal, however many times dashed upon the callous rocks of a child's indifference to her father's emails.