Hope Is At My Door Again

HOPE IS AT MY DOOR AGAIN

Hope is at my door again with a shape so fine,
a curving curiosity waiting to get in.
I draw my dusty blinds to block out her glare,
but those eloquent green eyes make a beautiful stare.

So take my modest hands and tell me they are perfect.
Trace my lips with a warm fingertip.
Smell the shirt worn through fire
before you vanish in the center of my soul.
Taste a quelling passion never known before.
Soar like heartache the night before a war.
Feel the embers of a promise held so steady
before you kiss the center of my soul.

Hope is out the door again with subtleness astounding,
a breeze of fragrance so overwhelming.
Everywhere it's empty. This bed is so bleak.
My imperfect hands sensing the indention in the sheets.

She whisked away the pictures never madea
and smashed the frames trying to tame the wild
but she cut her feet running from the guilt
of looking through hope's kaleidoscope.

So take my modest hands and tell me they are perfect.
Trace my lips with a warm fingertip.
Smell the shirt worn through fire
before you fuse with the center of my soul.
Taste a quelling passion never known before.
Soar like heartache the night before a war.
Feel the embers of a promise held so steady
before you douse the center of my soul.