"[...] beneath the glitter and glitz, the diamonds and black velvet, deep below, the Metropolis' heart beats; down in the sewers and gutters, where its dearest families live."
-- Paul Theroux; Memories of New York City--
She had come to hate it -- Hope.
The word. The sound. The concept. The unabashed cruelty of it all.
That's all anyone ever gave her -- Hope. Wrapped in short change.
A few were bills. But a buck is a buck -- paper or metal.
A dollar's worth of Hope -- that's all she ever could get for one.
And there were many -- a dollar at a time. A dollar a day.
Always. A dollar's worth of Hope.
Hope was a lie. Hope was a beautiful fairytale.
Hope was a ploy; an excuse.
Hope was diversion. Hope was perpetuation.
Hope was no solution; nor was a direction.
Hope. Was a compass without a magnet.
Hope was her; sunken eyes, ruffled hair.
She sat under that park bench; still savoring yesterday's meal.
As she thirsts for tomorrow's rain.
2 comments:
Cracker jack! Loved it and would only have loved it more if it weren't a reflection of (y)our thoughts on hope.
Hang in there, my dear brother, and take care.
My thoughts on 'hope' are not mine... they are a mere reflection of those I see in the eyes of those who have nothing, literally 'nothing', but hope... hope for another meal sometime the same week, hope for a "new" old jacket, hope for a warmer winter, cooler summer. Hope, to be treated like a human being, to be looked upon as more than litter. Hope that never materializes.
"Queni ya ranya ullumë vanwë umir."
You gave me hope. I kept none for myself.
~~ J.R.R. Tolkien, Lord of the Rings~~
Post a Comment