• bushbaby 6w

    Manifestation of Hope

    What is the manifestation of hope?
    I followed whispers of its elusive trail,
    faded scratch marks on my wooden doors, to find:
    Hope is a dainty porcelain teacup
    sitting in timely wait on the tabletop
    with its cocoa-coloured rims recalling
    hands savouring the fiery burn of a moment,
    as it sits and waits, comfortable in the assurance
    that life will warmly kiss its brims once more.
    Hope is paint on barren walls;
    its colour a hanging mirror
    forgotten by a person, and people,
    its frames the pattern of eager await
    of untold stories of unnumbered birthing days.

    Hope is a clock set to ring
    at exactly six every arriving morning,
    unburdened by worries of absences or delays
    as it sings with the confidence that ears will hear;
    ears that cling to murmurs of a hundred hidden dreams rooted in the garden of Time,
    set to bloom at the set of his eyes
    secretively, upon them.

    Hope is a number clutched to a chest,
    tied to a name and a face and words unsaid
    but tucked safely in a bed of anticipatory rest
    with the scented tranquillity
    of a bouquet of a thousand somedays,
    an unwrapped present left by the bed.
    Hope is a list with the boxes unchecked,
    with the paper uncreased
    and pinned to display at a desk,
    its contents adopted by diaries and wallets,
    and a heart yearning for some piece of solace.

    Hope is a worn basket, obese with stained clothes,
    leaving through a doorway,
    returning slim and transformed,
    as Future looms over unsuspecting heads,
    filling them with clouds of smoky dread
    that fogs and obscures and drains them
    of kind words and warm greetings,
    as they forget that not all houses fall on her map,
    and some gates are offered only a fleeting glance,
    as Future passes by.

    Hope is a front door left unlocked
    with the certitude of the return of a dearly beloved
    far from home but not from thought,
    and no one sends a map or points to signs on the road,
    for it is hoped that they will remember
    and find their way back home.
    Hope is a word and a thought and a feeling,
    a breath in a corpse and the spine of tides ever changing, and wheels,
    of the steadfast carriage ridden by Love.

    ~bush