Hope

 

All those songs, the ones sung and unsung 

now heard from within, 

by a baritone humming 

and taking form to fill 

unheard silences in

the darkness that takes form

after the hour of the wolf.

All that pain searing up 

through its body being burnt 

thoroughly by red hot flames, 

to ash crumbling away with the wind, 

smell of scorched flesh in the air

orange feathers dancing with crimson waves

into a heap of charred bones and plumes. 

All those unholy offsprings, of 

despair and death 

perching upon my shoulder 

A fair trade for the fee across, 

I'll give up the forlorn scent inside her jar, 

a wretched thing that takes us forth 

and make us believe in a better day.