Although it may grow weak my hope will never die,
Let me explain to you the reason of the why:
My hope is not a way nor a response to fright,
It is not a bright flame burning deep in the night,
My hope is not a sword with which I fell my wrath,
It is no wildfire cindering all on its path,
My hope is no symbol, it is not a fanfare
Nor a thousand candles lit for as much prayers,
My hope is neither sun, nor moon, or any star,
Bringing soft, wanderful warmth to and from afar,
Tis neither a lighthouse guiding me in darkness,
My hope is not either a string or a harness;
For given enough time they will rot and wither,
Scatter in the wind never to come back hither.
No, my hope is no light, but the music of dawns,
Sometimes it might seem bleak, but the colours it dons…!
On and off again, in a never-ending dance,
Never quite far away, never quite by your side,
Empty of any form, yet filling the expanse,
Always so beautiful, yet fleeting as the tide;
My hope is not a gift. No, my hope is a curse.
It will never vanish no matter all my verse,
For every door I open, every step I make,
For every score I begin, every breath I take,
I hope you are behind, I hope you are beyond,
You are my piece of mind, you are my Amy Pond.
Once again, I hope.
Some sort of essay on the hopelessness of hope sometimes.