The Mirage Of Hope Poem by Alexander Romanov

Strength deserts me; even pain is but a ghost.

My soul, a tapestry where moths have feasted.

Again, I tumble into the abyss's embrace,

Where friends' words are mere echoes in a void.

All I possessed is squandered, scattered, sold.

My bleeding heart lies naked on cold stone.

What lingers now but soot within my veins,

And ghosts of dreams that crumble into ash.

I hear footsteps fading at the edge of time.

They morph into cranes against a dying sky.

I wait no longer; forgiveness floods my eyes,

While Hope, the sly deceiver, weaves her lies.

Time seeps away, a venom slow and sweet.

The blade draws near—a lover's chilling touch.

Hope is a cruel jest, a jester's grin—

A crimson drop that stains the sterile floor.

Alone from the first breath, though hands touch mine,

They cannot trace the scars etched deep within.

They cannot slay the beasts that haunt my nights,

Nor voice the silent scream lodged in my throat.

They gather when the darkness swallows all,

When emptiness becomes a welcome friend.

When tears have carved their canyons on my face,

And faith dissolves into the endless dark.

Hope is illusion, yet it's all I clutch,

A phantom draped in shimmering deceit.

She blinds me with her borrowed light,

Then vanishes as I reach into the void.

She comes and goes, an ever-shifting shadow,

Keeping peace forever just beyond my grasp.

Despair has cut me with its finest blade,

For trusting Hope, I've been unmade.