Hope

Hope is fickle bastard

Born of miscommunication

Well intended gestures

And assertions shrouded in respect

Eluding the surgical precision

By which I remove, displace

And catalog my emotions.

Filed away and compartmentalized

In ways they’ll never hurt

Without consent,

I bar them mentally in neat stacks,

Needles and hay alike.

But hope is a spark,

Easily snuffed if conditions favor,

Or a roaring fire in consummation

Of walls and fortresses of steel.

So give me hope

In silence and absence of hate,

But tremble not

When I am ablaze.