47

Hope can hollow out a body
make it oh so thin
that any thought will warm or chill
the soul that’s perched within
like a drug that never
quenches
once the taste has taken hold
Hope can make the wearer
weaken
turning prematurely old
Muscles start to feed on memories
wishes quell a hungry ache
snatches of old conversations
spin out droplets from the lake
All at once 
just bones are left
barely filling out out the tent
creaking breezes whistle through
the barren landscape of lament
Fires lessen to a murmur
dancing with the darkness fine
chambers rust and cease to
open 
damning up the sheathed divine
Until one day it’s all complete 
and everyone is too remote
to stop the swallowed circles
as they tighten fast the rope.