Hope Was

Hope was a thing with feathers

Perched deep within my heart

 She sang a tune a bit off-key 

A mine canary’s art

 Her brave  porcelain composure

Wafted down amid the gloom

Her voice shoving out the darkness 

Like a lantern in a tomb

But the years advanced with violence 

And her fragile body broke

When the darkness grew in size

Cutting air off like thick smoke

But she never perished, no

Just reduced down to an ember

That would not give up or go out

Growing cold in deep December 

As she started to recover 

She grew keratinous scales

And her bones became less brittle

And her song was more like wails 

She eventually found her perch again

Swinging gently in the soul

But the treatment poor hope had received

Made obvious its toll

Instead of buoyant flutters

Trilling chirps and happy song

She was trembling and whimpering

Too afraid to sing for long

No more cheerful blue adornment

Just dark eyes now filled with fear

She could only now imagine

The next trauma creeping near

As she wept her gilded golden cage

Dissolved and fell away 

Still hope though greatly altered never quit or went astray

She wrapped her claws around her perch

Secure upon her swing

And if you listen carefully sometimes 

you'll even hear her sing

It's never quite as cheerful 

It is partly fear writ large

But enough original  hope is present 

She remains the one in charge. 

Yes hope was a thing with feathers

 But she’s got PTSD 

So instead of her lost bluebird shape

A tiny dragon lives in me