It's a silly little thing,
Hope.
It makes you against
Your most innate beliefs.
Heck, it tricks you into
Believing the impossible
To be a child's play.
How we cling to it
As the blind do to
Sound, Sensation,
Even at the brink of death,
We are ready to sacrifice what we don't have left.
Happily, without hesitation,
Sole belief that there is,
Still the last silver of
Hope.
Will we ever stop?
Should we?
YOU ARE READING
Echo of Thoughts
PoesiePoetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that hurt. It is a matter of life not just a matter of language... Breathe in experience, breathe out poetry....
