Pith’s Ache

Hope is a lonely midnight stroll

When the hours of the torch lie dead in the shadows

And the hooting owl flings dauntless wings

Against a windless, sleeping valley.


Hope is a vow of silence

Fulfilled in a melancholy of stifled song,

And a fasting soul swollen with unsung verses

Which retain volleys of bursting suns and glistening skies


Hope is a narrow mountain pass

Rugged, richly defiant and snow-hidden,

Torturous to all who seek its consolation,

Abusing each progressive footfall with scornful mock


Hope is a fetter purchased and latched into place by one’s own hand

And a key which afterword is returned to its owner’s pocket, or otherwise discarded.


8 thoughts on “Pith’s Ache

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