…a poem on forlorn hope
That feeling, was it maddening, like stark-crazed maddening,
to realize you were the only soldier running towards it?
The only one lost enough to strike a match in a windstorm
The only one to light the lantern lamp when it befits?—
Is it wrong you were that imbecile holding the candle,
or the one raising that tattered flag in the desert?
Why should you be those unwavering traces of light,
Those beacons of hope in despair, is it worth all the effort?
Where has it gotten you? But lonely with each sunset,
Unable to rip away from your own forlorn nights
To terms you came with yourself for casting away the sun
Instead you let the darkness drink well your impassioned plight
A pity it is, that in perished hope you search for rebirth
As though the leaves have not yet shriveled away from the tree
Like when the climbing sun is so close to the horizon
But a rainstorm overtakes the plains, and light never comes to be
Why is it that you hold out hope, you continue to pray,
As though death was not that stern mistress or fellow you knew,
In the black velvet of a shadowed heart you’d find the truth
That in those moments of emptiness, hope was forged anew.
Did it feel like your heart fell through your gut when you found out?
That all those prayers and well wishes never actually panned out
Or when you wanted to believe so badly in something good
But never accepted the answer was riddled in doubts.
Was it maddening, that feeling, the moment you lost hope,
or was it you knew that it was something you’d never find
This vacuum of empathy that crept in, was in fact life,
Was that the moment you recognized your soul was blind?