"Hope is the best of things"
They say, as you comprehend a catastrophe.
They lose no skin, if saying it only brings
A further extension of your misery.
On fertile lands, weeds often grow,
Sucking nutrients on the sly,
They reduce its largesse, but even so,
The land knows, all weeds eventually die.
Hope is the cruel weed, to grow on barren lands
Which in emptiness, had awaited tranquility,
And though time flies, hope never dies,
The quest for peace, stretches an eternity.
If only the hope for better,
Could be accountable to reality,
It would die a death so bitter,
Its pyres birthing closure and finality.
But to wish for this itself is hope,
It is 'hoping' hope's misery ends,
To wish it away is to invigorate it,
Forbearing; wondering what it portends.