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Hope
Hope is a peculiar angel
She is the antipathy of faith
And the promise of dreams
The pessimist sardonic waiting in the wings
To give you hope

Bright the hours must be
In the arms of hope
To clinch upon the clouds penumbra
When darkest drear runs petulant through veins
So comes the clarion of hope

A vague skeleton in her robes
With her feathered wing-ed tears
For courageous she comes
But hammers theism upon the cold gold plate
To make intuition beg forgiveness

Too prideful to admit deceit, is hope
Too formulated to walk with instinct
Too lost in desperate wishings to bare fruit
And grant epiphany in the eyes of trust
Too many lies in the hope of truth

A peculiar angel is always hope
She is the antipathy of faith
And the promise of dreams
The persistent pessimist waiting sardonic
In the wings of impossible hope