Past the doors, the smell of pages full of memory, stories shared by people like you and me. My eyes, on this day, wander towards the works of Emily Dickinson. "Hope is the thing with feathers". Hope has been extinguished for me far too many times, but it seems to always return somehow. Hope, delicate as a feather, yet evasive; fleeing the touch of fingertips, ever grasping to hold on to the thing that keeps life worth living.
It seems I always watch as my hope floats away on a strong gust of wind. But maybe when it returns again, it will be easier to grasp- finally grabbing hold of that feather which has been evading my touch for so long.
YOU ARE READING
Ode to Life
PoésieIt's chaos to figure out how to live. To love yourself, to love others, to create, to destroy. It's just life. But maybe... just life isn't a bad thing? You can't have good without the ugly. This has all my poems combined, this'll be my only poetry...
