A Bittersweet herb called Hope

Written by: Sarah Ramharrack

Rip me to pieces and toss me aside,
I will wear my bruises proudly
never will I hide
Let the world judge even though it is not their place
I have myself a small comfort
No choice left, I must finish this race
The journey is important
but the mode of transport must change
For these things I cannot swallow
Or I might find myself deranged,
A sea of tears flow freely,
I could almost drown,
Stifling my sorrow
Not a sob, not a sound,
As the witching hour approaches
It shrouds me in the stillness of the night,
I stumble about in this tunnel
seeking the guiding light,
In the distance I see a glimmer ahead,
That will restore an abundance of life
To what was once dead.
Hope is not the ability to grasp at mere straws,
It is the possibility that something better
lies behind closed doors.