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.