A wild torrent, crashing, engulfing, tossing me from side to side.
It fills me with fear and an odd calm.
Waves against a dark shore, but a light shines in the horizon. This light is hope, and it is warm and soft. It seems so far away, and the dark water flows away from it, a riptide that crashes against the cliffs of my mind.
But the hope, the hope is always there. A hope for something better, a hope for something more. I reach towards it, wanting, needing, dying. It's so close, but always at my fingertips, and still I strive to take hold.
It is no mean feat to hold on to hope. It hurts for the tide stays true to its name. It tears me and rips my soul from my flesh, but still I hold on.
This tide, this emotion. It is what fills me with life, but also what strips it away. It is what keeps my hope on the horizon, and it is what keeps my heart beating. This tide, this wild torrent, I can not live without.
YOU ARE READING
Moving the Mountains
PoetryPoetry used to bring down countries and inspire artists and break and win over hearts. This poetry is meant for the same fate, if only one truly decides to read it.
