yes, rubbish.
hope is a weak little thing.
such a fierce wind as i
can break its hoping wings.
i can break myself
again again gaining tiny insights into
flying mechanical things,
but never into the magic
that breathing faith
brings into the divorce
of sad unwilling
hands
which don't want to leave
you back there in the cold and go
drink hot whiskey in the grim pursuits of the day.
in my heart
the hedges and the white limbs of the statues
the eyelashes
of eidolons in repose-
my hopes and all best intentions
become nothing more than very kind lies
wasting your lovely liveliness.
and what of mine?
these are footsteps
these are breaths
these are the moments we must live through
before we are what each of us becomes alone.