Thursday, 24 December 2009


(or, The Bitch)

Lined with silver,
Are clouds.
But only
If you look.

They exist solely when
You want them to.
This is not always.

Inevitably, with them
Arrives hope.
She springs eternal.
A misfortune, that.
Hope is a cruel mistress.

She is not faithful,
Anyone can have her, if
They like.
She takes you in, she
Promises you the world.
She does that with everyone,
You know.

I live with her,
Her expressions are my daily bread.
Half smiles, chance conversations,
Small joys.

How I detest that
I have no choice, but
To rely
On hope.
PS, You weren't meant to be reading the text at the top. For that matter, this bit is meant to be hidden, too.

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