Dreadful as it were
in leagues of triumph
I sake my trust to vanity

Like the desire fueled by rage
of canons
gaslit by its muse of fear

The storm shall come
wreck us humans
so witted in the lay of
all that feels unright

weak, vulnerable, desperate
to hide
the mournings of the cloaked
we speak, we fight

when we talk about hope
I wonder
what powers brings us forth
to such strength

Is it rigidity of light
of vague delusions

or a sight so blatant
it waits to be spent

Is it bliss or
bravery to unsee what
is,
to walk in a tune of
what is no more

Or is it similar to when
light seeks solace in the dark
where the darkness
fades right where it rose

So different it is
from where we are
like kindness--
a kin, it is, of its own

raw, distinct, with
a sense of fright,
leading a way, different
to all, it guides

And the smart, the shallow
like us, call them damned
the whispering of the weak
the ways of the pen

And those who hope,
like us, call them lost
scared of all the good
we've known, we've lent

But they set fire, so they burn
to toast
the world on its mimicry

And what is right?
if it were more than a word.
And... what is right?
It is more than a word.

Something so stable, like hope,
it moves, silently, breathing,
lighting,
the Earth.

© M