Hope, again

People speak about hope as if it’s the water with which they can put out their fires.

I did this also, describing hope as a dear friend that would hold my hand and console me during times of need.

I called hope my window, ajar to the possibilities that lie waiting in a brighter future.

But hope has been a cancer, leisurely eating away at the contentment I create after loss.

Today I will stand on a mountaintop and declare hope as an adversary.

Hope has forced me to become a realist.

Heart Strings

I am a steel bridge, supporting tons, on my back, never failing.
I am an airbus, carrying many, across distances, never slowing.
I am a dump truck, shuttling waste, into mountains, never complaining.

I can spin any rough thread into golden tales and sell you down a river.
I can sing juicy declarations and convince you that I am all you need and more.
Well, anyone that is, but You.

You know that,
I am a rainbow, displacing light, from my bones, never quitting.
You know that,
I am a haystack, offering respite, in my arms, never tiring.
But You know that,
I am an old scar, prompting nightmares, in your heart, never losing.

If I once played melodies on your heart strings like an angel with her harp,
Cant you paint with my sweet remorseful blood over the dark canvas I left you with?