less than 1 minute read

With apologies to Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the memory of a dream
vanishing seconds after waking,
already fragmenting, quickly forgotten
as we methodically pack away our camp.

Since we came to this former town
that thing with feathers has stalked us.
Our every slight movement tracked
as it circles around our frail bodies.

Here, that thing perches above us
imitating old radio broadcasts
or those lost long ago to time.
It strikes us in the soul. We walk on.

Today, dawn attacks my eyes.
As I rise to find new sanctuary
it sings the tune without the words.
I reel, faint and almost succumb.

For just as hope is always fading,
like blind ants we are always stumbling,
racing the sharp claws. We run.
It always follows and never stops- at all.



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