Hope will always be trapped in Pandora’s box
and yet we call its name, as though that alone will be enough! to draw it out so it will manifest itself suddenly before us! like some heroic argonaut.
Sometimes we say it’s all in our head
hope doesn’t exist, and if it did, it’s been here with us this whole time! and we’ve just been blind to its arrival.
We say we can’t live without it as our gentle companion, a smaller soul—almost mammal—! that curls up next to us, make us worth it. Hope is the thief of loneliness and sorrow! when we are unable to give it up ourselves.
Looking for hope is like grasping for rain,
grasping for stars: so enormous and unknowable! yet so woven into the same sky that we exist in! that eventually we believe that there is no distinction
between where hope, rain and stars end and we begin. But none of it can be held forever. We are hope’s broken soldiers, searching for it in pennies, fortune cookie scraps, our last love, the first train out,
A memory or a dream we forgot to transcribe.
But it’s never copper, it’s never written,
it never arrives or makes amends.Yet still we call its name,
and from Pandora’s box it calls ours back.
It’s not our companion, our personal thief of melancholy.
But when it calls for us, the sound of it still echoes.
Unnamed and unpredictable,
So far and indescribable, it echoes.