The Curse of Hope

Hope is insidious in its waning,
lingering sweet like a sin,
an unspoken prayer
that betrays reason
in defiance of looming inevitability
while offering nothing more
than a lengthening of the hours
of a lonely vigil.

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On Muses

onmuses“The Edge… there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” – Hunter S. Thompson

A chill washed over him, like icy fingers dancing their way up and down his spine, followed by a sudden emptiness. It was like the world had just left him, like his spirit had just vacated his body. He felt dead. Numb. He could have said he wasn’t feeling any emotions, but despair, utter, hopeless despair is definitely an emotion. If he was dead, then he probably shouldn’t be feeling anything. And he was feeling something. Though he wished he wasn’t.

All that remained now were memories. Cold, distant memories that hung on to him, leaving their marks on his soul even as he tried to push them out.

His soul…

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This place I never meant to find,

this time I never meant to be in,

holds me against my will

and I linger longer than a moment

in years gone past and lost;

it’s all I can do to not reach out,

to stretch out from the lonely dark

with fingers broken and bruised

from clawing at this prison of hope,

to see if you, if any part of you that

isn’t only memory now might be there–

but I know, to do so would be my folly,

and finding again the deafening roar

of an anger I’m not sure I deserve

I’d only retreat, defeated again by

the reality that is me,

the reality you created for me.

There was a time, a moment

when light and color–when you–washed away

all the greying shadow I cast in the world,

and melody takes me there far too often,

more than I’d like to admit,

but now…. now there is only me

and memory, thunderous and vibrant,

and painful, not for what it is,

but for what it no longer isn’t;

and this echoing silence fueled now

by rage and hate and the blame of

love misunderstood and cast aside

for lies that were never told

is all that remains of a forgiveness

that was asked for and offered

and then stripped away before it could breathe.

Musings From The Porch: The Storm & The Vigil

aesa

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!” – Hunter S. Thompson

A year ago I wrote about sitting in a coffee shop in downtown Chicago, watching stories of the world unfold. The organized chaos of that day is starkly contrasted by the disorganized calm I experience now, sitting on my porch in the Indiana countryside, not so much watching the world go by, but rather -feeling- it go by. The occasional car, truck, or tractor rumbles along our ragged stretch of cracked and worn asphalt, but other than that, it’s a fairly sedate existence out here. To say it’s quiet is both an understatement and a falsehood, illustrating the contradictory nature of life.

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how the heart dies

You offered it,

the hope I held on to,

this sense of security and meaning,

without my asking,

without my wanting–

I reached for it,

for what it meant,

because you offered,

because it mattered;

but what I grasped

was emptiness,

lonely and cold–

abandoned

after so many promises,

so many offers;

silence and waiting

are what I have now,

what I deserve,

for what I am

and am not,

the emptiness widening

and pain…

so much pain…

and this hope now

falters and fades,

and so must I.