Hope – Poem

It’s called hope, and the thing about hope is it doesn’t just fade; hope comes crashing down all around you like the inevitable wave breaks on the shingle.

Where my father sleeps
Is the place to which I seek
Beneath the dirt and ice
My life would be nice
Into which I will be born
After this one is all worn
I seek a place to rest
It is you to whom I bequeath
You will know what is the best
Whichever is underneath.
By land or by the sea,
Either will suit me.

© December 2011. Possibly.

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