To most, hope is a gift,
A great treasure to be valued.
To me, it is a pain,
A wicked sharp punishment for my unrelenting heart,
A swift and sudden tormentor
Like the whip’s anticipated crack upon the slave’s back.
Hope drives us on,
Gives us strength to continue:
Continuing to a cruel end, to our demise
And the perishment of love.
Hope is a cruel thing,
A hateful persistent fault of human nature.
When it is taken and destroyed, as we lay
Cold, beaten, and poor,
We are left completely destitute
With nothing but hope for more.
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