In my world, hope's
a thing deferred; it
disturbed like that
keeps backing back.
What, when dissatisfaction
comes as balm on back so
scarred by sun? Whose light
as future's path expected
and something in nature
that is reflection of it.
"And everything around is
growing disaffected to it,"
but drained of meaning,
and lacking any aim of
correcting things, or even
the notion that correcting
them is possible. It's thudded
closed a fuzzy wall, reflecting
—with the focus of it
all the choices of a portcullis
to the keep of the heart,
which holds all hope and
is disappointed that
ultimately progress comes not.
