From the memory of heavy hope, not the heart I hold today — a remembering of what it feels like to wrestle with hope when it both haunts and holds you.

Face to face with hope. 
Lacking discernment of realistic ideologies,
Or shadow stains of dreams long passed. 
Weariness burying positive mentalities;
My soul, my personality.
Whilst my effort urges upward glances.
Back to hope. 
Back to disappointment.
Back to grievances over unmerited wondering;
An unpermitted wandering
According to time itself.

An assurance of time’s hatred of me, 
Birthed of impatient waiting and petty hindrances.
The allied team of timing, of tire 
Haunting muscles, depleting energy 
From a body already in debt. 
A body whose perspective 
Of perseverance is now wretched.
Cursed with survival in a land
Of almosts and maybes.
Imprisonment of the mind,
Suicide of a dreamer.

Yet, hope is not one to turn away.
Visiting graves with earnest belief
In conspiracy theories of his own heart.
Allowing no soul escape,
No soul rest, even at their own behest.
And so, face to face with hope,
Defiance rising to meet the lies
In irises that once held my dreams,
Time stands still, weary ceases,
And I breathe the first breath of many.
The scent of realism and freedom.