Notes About The Poem

Token



“Token” 

We went looking for Love 
in all the wrong places imperfect
there We received perfect bodies that warmed us
in darkened rooms where We chose to lie like gods,
freedom nourished us like holy sacraments
sustained us daily like bread and wine 
We ate up life too fast, hungrily We took flight
We were greedy unrefined for the colour Red, 
such is Life, 
our alters were over-refined
last suppers We missed regularly shuffling unsaid goodbyes
hurriedly trading youth with time,
We read poetic minds that seduced us
to kneel in front of Books like men We idolised
of course We wanted to be seduced like Eurydice
yet Hades and all the Erinyes called us in like Furies
We lost our way in the wars of life,
inside a burning house the Heart remained closed tight inside
where children come and go, where once all remembered
is forgotten in time, their comings and goings We no longer know,
sins of the fathers and mothers sigh, there for the grace of God went I, still,
inside something remains holding its royal flame ultra violet high 
kissing passionately and impatiently what little is left of us, 
our lives never seem to rhyme but in cracked dark sentences 
something external within the tarnished mortal boundaries still shines, 
We debate internally all the time counting our hours and days and nights,
our sensibilities are flickering ebulliently dreaming to die 
We roll our dice shooting roulette like crazy blue Russians to cast the cage aside; 
 
Hope is a strange ride
Its destiny unpaid, an invisible token 
We cannot afford to hide




Candide Diderot. ‘26 



"Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."
Stephen King


“Hope is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.” 
Emily Dickinson

hopemusenarrative

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