Hope

Bittersweet

As certain as a concrete path

That leads from here to there

A settled end of certainty

Releasing – if you dare

An ending seems so final

Though an end there needs to be

An end with questions still unanswered

End of long-past misery

As tender washes bitterness

Aside! Away! Afar!

The bitterness of losses

Taints the sweetness of the mark

A farewell mark in time

A fresh begin-again

A next step of progression

A sweet beginning, bitter end

31/5/209

From Stuart McDonald

I dedicate these sentiments I wrote (see below) to the people I know who find that they, too, may be beset by doubts, fears and anxieties beyond number, and who find themselves in a place of darkness, shadow and a woefully uncertain future. We live in our present because it is the only now we have.
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Don’t Think That of Me (Stuart McDonald)

You cannot for a moment think of me as this person,
This man,
This wretch or this weakened idiot and fool you think me to be.
For in me, inside of me, as a man of this earth, as torn as the next and as sunken beneath the weight of my own heart as the next,
I am something else.
I am the thing you fear the most,
The faithful one
The determined and recklessly hopeful one.
Yes, quite possibly the most to be feared am I —
He who hopes even when he has none left to himself.
Emptied.
All self gone, all hope gone,
Empty.
Hollowed.
Hardly an echo of hope remains.
Hollow.
And yet I choose to still have something,
Something,
Some foreign and familiar thing
Drifting, floating and sinking within me.
Most to be feared am I.
This shell,
And this husk,
And this body burnt to a crisp.
For you would have me believe that
My fragile shell
Hollowed like a tree trunk carven an eternity ago
Struck down by lightening’s gleeful potency,
Is impotent.
And yet.
And yet, I hope.
My tears stream down my face and I hope.
In spite of my sunken soul and
This withered hand that reaches for someone else’s strength,
And wrapped in the cold blankets of the longest of winters,
I somehow choose some kind of hope.
It is not the kind I am use to.
Not me, my richest of dreams scattered in the winds like ticker tape in days gone by.
No, not like that.
And you think you can crush me?
Perhaps you can.
And perhaps even until the very last minute
I can look outside, beyond the claws
Beyond the mighty pressing weight you claim to possess
And which I certainly feel,
And perhaps even then … When all is fire and heat, and ice and stone all at once,
Even then,
I can gaze beyond this here
Beyond this now.
Even the hopeless can hope.
And I am that man.