bitter pills dissolved in nascent morn

truthfully, no
hope is not as dead
as when i degrade it
the words falling over
maggoty lips
a false proclamation
made in the insidious
heartscape of denial

i remain
ever hopeful in
the desire for
hope to come
happily to fruition
hoping against hope
for hope
in an endless cycle
of self delusion

i am a barnacle
stuck mindlessly
to the side of this
near capsized vessel
bemoaning the state
of existence
yet never simply
letting go to spiral
into the prepetual dark

crushing dream
with every awkward
toddler like step
suicidal in hope
hopeless in living

so, no
the answer is simply no
hope is not dead
it is the rope
around my throat
the yoke across
my aching shoulders
driving me forward
it is the tattered blinders
confusing my sight
with flashes of
petulant reality

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