Hope is a fugitive, and we are the men in blue. We are the officers and the patrols, chasing hope in hopes of being its captor. Hoping we can be the one to hold it and keep it within our grasp.
Yet hope is fleeting, and its ways might lead us astray. For the things we hope for aren’t always good. For our consciousness might hinder us from being conscientious. For we are, in our cores, mere human beings.
Hope is precarious, and it slips away so easily, too easily. I found that it’s better not to hope, if hoping makes me hurt worse. So I bid my dreams of hope adieu, but my little heart still longs for it.
In the crowd, all alone, my eyes are fixed ahead, but I still glance around my peripheral view. Seeking, monitoring the perimeter. For hope is a fugitive, and I am a runaway.