Should I have hope, that which Ms. Dickinson wrote of?

Mine has feathers, but a wounded wing, for it cannot seem to perch

Mine has a tune, which it does not sing, for it’s been silenced by hurt

Hope has been described, by me, as a balloon inflated one breath too far

Should I hope to dream of love, I fear it’d drift away on a fallen star

I should not hope, lest be confined to a cell of unnamed strife

Where the heart and the soul and the mind derange

Where the bitter taste of loneliness fans invisible flames

Where life and certain slumber slither beneath cracks in the door

Shall I hope? I think I shall hope forevermore



(photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/digitalart/3065769907/”>digitalART2</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;)

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