21

My 21st official poem :)

Hope is not the thing with feathers. It isn’t delicate,

Light, or

Airy.

Hope is the mountain that was moved by fear.

Hope doesn’t perch in your soul.

Once it finds a benign tree, the branch snaps,

And hope falls, falls.

It’s picked up by an innocent--

Played with, caressed by childish touch--

Cared for and loved--

Until one day it’s left carelessly by the riverbed like Heidi--

On a journey of its own.

Hope doesn’t sing tunes.

Her whispers are the sound of wind chimes--

The wind--

Howls--

And no one can hear the newspaper rustle and tear

Because Hope shrieks.

As the wind howls,

She screams.

I’ve felt hope.

It gnawed at me once.

I’ve hoped, almost as much as I’ve loved and laughed,

But not as much as I’ve lived.

Trust me--none of us have.

We’ve lived for eras, centuries, decades, years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, and milliseconds.

We’ve lived through revolution and renaissance, dictatorship and democracy, war and peace.

Damn, we’re living now.

But hope has lived through it all.

When we perished, it coursed through the roots of empires,

Glittering beads in the government’s gargled poison,

And into our inflated economies.

Hope has been through it all.

It’s with us now,

In my very blunt pencil lead

(becoming more blunt with each passing second after 2:47 A.M.),

Like my faith in God,

It spikes--but it’s with me.

And I’m not letting go.

Author's Note

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