Some people like to tend to flowers colourful and lively, like orchids with pink petals and green leaves. Some plant a cactus in a pot. It is a little smile that needs little care to keep alive, a hardy companion. But I, I have in my mind a jungle of hope, for it grows on its own, and no blade is sharp enough to cut it down.

The eagle of my eye, no matter how high, sees not the reality grounded beneath the lying sheet. A crowd, uncontrollable, gathers there to reminisce about the beauty of the past, glory of the far, calm of the warm. A thick layer of smoke unites, surrounding the growth. It hides vehemently the gaps among the branches of hope, leaving nothing but a thin sense of light, colour, and movement visible. Among the ever-expanding nothingness, so bleak and boring, thin strands of hope become the only saviours my arms intend to reach eagerly. This, of course, escapes reason. But there is no place for reason where hope’s name is uttered. Of the consequences I become aware only after my bodily statue drowns halfway down in a pit of quicksand below the soil hope should root from.

I’ve tried many times to do away with hope. Although it grows everywhere and every time like weed does, no weed whacker is sold to me which I may drag through my mind. It stays, then, until it decides that it has hurt for long enough. Every pinch of soil, pocket of air, drop of water within its reach is poisoned forever as it gradually turns gray, and it perishes with no mark left to signal its story. One day, it may come back to haunt nightly dreams, or never return at all.

For all I know, I am tired of your dreams. Yet, I am aware that the seeds of happiness in my existence are buried within this hope. This hope that I cannot touch, feel, or hear… I only see it fading in in my weakest moments. I wish that here were not where your hope is. I wish that it were you, but it will never be. I would much prefer none, if it won’t be you.

Hope grows on its own
in me where sorrow sown
like weeds in your gardens
but my gard’ner’s absent

Whenever and wherever
it springs as it pleases
casting shade of lies
on my earthly truth

And so I fight through day and night
to lay my weary eyes on its light
one more time, and one more too
another glimpse pierces through

For it feeds when i bleed
my veins have drained
so have the tear sacks
to water this weed