A Bittersweet Herb Called Hope

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.