Poem
hope
what hope is left, when we ourselves
have from ourselves let slip.
what places lost amongst the vines
search out our weakened grip.
we smile upon the slaughterer
and welcome in a thief
and ask that they will numbness steal
and make a death for grief.
i wish i could begin a line
and find rescinding word,
But in the night I feel
its restless gait a shifting shape
the darkening fantasy of a pristine state.
