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


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