Hope is not a porcelain doll
Precariously balanced on the edge of destruction
Ready to fall at a change in the wind
Hope is the dirt, and the grit under fingernails,
The blood,
Tears,
And Sweat
Hope is the sweet scent of death
Akin to roses left in a vase too long.
Hope is the taste of iron and dirt,
The sound of swords clashing,
Battle cries.
Hope is the fluttering ash,
The suffocating smoke,
Hope is the claps on the back
When the battle is lost
The skeletal frame of a prisoner of war
Whose heart keeps on beating-
Defying all reason,
And logic,
And arguments for why it should have stopped long ago–
Hope is not a porcelain doll
Hope is ugly
Bitter,
Brutal, even.
But hope is indestructible.