the thing about hope

Hope is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul,

and sings the tune without words,

and never stops at all.

- Emily Dickinson, "Hope Is The Thing With Feathers"

***

My hope flew away

and left me and my coal mine soul.

I don't blame it;

it was getting smothered

by the toxic air

that I didn't seem to care

was slowly killing me.

But at some point,

as I started to drag myself to the surface,

it flew back

as tattered and dingy as I was.

Feathers danced in the air

until landing,

still a striking yellow

against the darken earth,

but paler than before.

My hope chirped sadly,

a little whisper in my ear:

I need you as much as you need me.

Here I thought it would have flourished without me;

a yellow thing with feathers

twirling in the sky

and singing happy songs.

Here I though it didn't need me,

but it turns out,

even when we were apart

we never were

and we had both been slowly dying.

So barely breathing,

I pulled my hope close to my chest

and accepted it in my soul.

We are both a little broken

and tossed about,

but we'll be okay.

No matter what happens,

we aren't alone anymore.