It is the burning passion that drives men to greatness;
Gives the defeated a glimmer of perhaps

It is the dreamkeeper; cradling the tentative dreamer,
Singing sweetly of future glories

You cannot live without it’s burning promise;
Cannot stand long against the reality that turns to ashes
The passions of man

It is the answer to the screams of battered flesh:
Rent and bruised by the ravages of time and existence

It is the muse that spurs us on, to write in blood
The promises we make to our aching hearts;
The voice of encouragement that whispers
Into the dark recesses of terror filled minds

It is the brightness of the morning after the mists have uncurled and drifted away;
the darkness of the night turned to brilliance by moonrise

You cannot lose it, or pieces of you die and wither away;
A leprous corpse dragging fleshly chains of despair

It is eternal; a time vehicle to transport you, with impossible speed, into the unknown of “what if?”; sometimes fleeting and fragile; too often easily consumed by the nemesis of doubt.

A cool, shimmering rain that quenches the dusty tongue; gives nourishment to those lost in the desert of drudgery and the mundane.

Let it reawaken ideas kept locked away in the rotting strongbox of fear;
Let it bring to life wonderment and tomorrow’s joy.

Hope cannot be annihilated because it is the very encasement
That holds our hearts;
The life force that allows us to have our being
And dream.

©12/9/2015, JB Heston

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