a pretty little tomb

hope is the thing with feathers
that perches on the soul
and sings the tune without the words
and must be promptly killed
with an adequately sized shotgun.
- Emily Dickinson

You ask of me what the matter is

"why is there no word from you?"

"what is there to do?"

We shall fight the fight

till the world end's night.

But only so long as there's hope.

And once it's gone there be little light

neither a point to stay, I fright.

What is done is done, now

all there is left, is to

lay it to rest; maybe

stick a nice flower on top

and call it a pretty little tomb

to something we once held dear.

Comments

to hide from a hiccup

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UpsideDownCake

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