You speak of Hope as virtue,
A thing to be revered.
But is it not a prison -
A cage to hold us still?

An expectation born of rote,
That spring will always chase the frost,
That dawn will always follow dark.
That gain will always follow loss.

But is not repetition its own chain?
To walk and walk and walk,
but end where one first stood?
You call it 'Hope' to tread such circles.
But I find no joy in it.

I yearn not to turn back the page,
But to write what is yet unwritten.
Spurred not by what is promised,
But by what is left unspoken.

Can't you see?
It was never the light that saved us,
Never the return that made us whole.
It was the breaking.

When expectations are shattered,
Possibilities become endless.


Penned by my hand on Closday, the 25th of Sapiarch, in the year 12 AC.