Hope must never be taken for granted

Oh, to look deep into the soul of man,
To feel the coursing blood of rage,
To experience the searing heat of shame,
To don the pale white mask of fear or infirmity,
To be eaten up by guilt or pain.

Where are we
Without map or compass headings,
To be so easily mislead by bigotry or hatred,
Jealousy or greed?
To live
Where hopelessness festers in the brain,
And nothing seems to fill the need.

What mind can deny its earthly tribulations,
This mortal state continually marred
By scars of abandonment, betrayal, abuse, and neglect?

How is it…
How is it that we survive, none-the-less,
Prodded on by our egocentric logic, our pretentious pride.
Taking great offense at the idea
That our fate could be held in the hands of another.

And yet, this is the essence of living.

Optimism, a futile jab at fickle destiny,
A momentary pause in the mêlée.
Love, an innocent distraction,
Born on the carnal wings of procreation.

Eyes wide open, most must surely know the score.
Even the youngest of us weeps
Wanting for something more.

Happiness, contentment,
This, the fool’s holiday, or so they say.

And through these
Bleak cerebral deserts,
So many plod, day after day after day,
Forever trailing the sun and the moon,
Forcing feet to shuffle ever onward,
Toward some elusive and half-remembered horizon.

Yet, even in the midst of this emotional wasteland,
This soul-consuming isolation,
I have seen miracles,
Something beyond any rational explanation…

Squeezing the last drop from an empty goat-skin water pouch,
A sudden smile twitches across cracked and bleeding lips.




Michael S. True
11-30-13