Hope Poem by Alexander Romanov

No strength remains, not even the taste of pain.
The soul is moth-eaten, hollow again.
Everything falls into the pit once more,
and the worth of kind words is nothing in store.

All has been given, lost, or sold—
a heart drenched in blood served at supper cold.
Only dust clings to the rags I wear,
and the ghost of hope still hangs in the air.

She hears his steps grow fainter each night;
he is a crane now, ascending in flight.
She does not wait—she forgives, she weeps,
while her foolish friend feeds her false dreams.

Time drips away; a soft little lie
fits a knife to her wrist and whispers "try."
Hope was there, but it died in vain—
now it pools on the floor, a thick red stain.

You are born alone, and though a friend may appear,
he cannot read the scars cut deep and clear.
He will not be brave for you when you choke,
nor speak the words you swallowed unspoke.

He can only reach when the night grows long,
when despair blinds your eyes and strangles your song.
When tears carve your face into three crooked streams,
and hope has decayed into rusted dreams.

Hope is a fraud, yet it's all we embrace—
passed from hand to hand, selling her grace.
This treacherous beast blows dust in your eyes,
then vanishes the instant salvation is prized.

She will vanish, return, and vanish once more,
always dangling her jewel just past your door.
And I—without hope, with sorrow impaled—
was slain by belief when certainty failed.