The Myth

If we could walk every day,

As men with a hope for something better,

Then better we would be.

And the best would surely come.

 

And even when it doesn’t,

That ethereal breeze of expectation that wafts

Would gracefully soothe our souls;

Frail as it may be, we would find peace.

 

For hope is nothing but a chance; a will;

A solemn prayer;

One with which we hold dear to our beliefs.

 

Hope is that little voice we pray to hear,

Deep in the depths of our despair;

Lodged firmly in the corners of our hearts;

It is that musical symphony that never parts.

 

If we should be thankful for anything,

Then the glorious myth ‘hope’ ought to be one.

Cos gobs of folks have been saved,

All ‘cause of a myth that silently told ‘em to hold on.

Author's Note

Any thoughts?

Reviews

[Alice Poésy]

Aah, hope! One of the most foolish and beautiful concepts ever created, in my opinion. You wrote such a wonderful description of it! "For hope is nothing but a chance; a will;/A solemn prayer... Hope is that little voice we pray to hear"

Indeed hope does make us better, I feel like it's the magic of the universe and if we lose that, it's the equivalence of losing a vital organ.

Loved this!

[Mifa]

My thoughts exactly. Thanks for the review Alice.

[Akshita]

Hey! It's a really positive and pretty poem! I really love reading such poems!

[Mifa]

Thanks Akshita for the kind words and the read.