The Soul of Hope
- Bookworm87

Hope is the thing with feathers.
So the poem goes.
It perches in the soul,
So the poet says.
But the soul is a thing with wings as well,
Black or white or blue or green,
Features blatant or unseen.
Some are vibrant playful butterflies,
Some are soft shy moths.
Some are earthbound emus,
And some soar far aloft.
There are fireflies that glide through all,
And pixies that poke and prod and tease,
Sparrows that go unnoticed,
Flitting among the worldly trees.
Fierce falcons that protect and fight,
Owls that hoot and stalk the night,
Eagles that glare and dive and kill,
Hawks that soar above until
The darkness comes.
The ravenous dragon arrives intent
To destroy, to gorge himself,
Not caring for the other souls.
The bumblebees swarm among themselves,
Working together to make sweet honey,
But shunning the butterfly in their midst.
And yet the soul is a complex thing.
Few are simply a dragon or a bee.
Many have their hatred.
Most have their bitterness.
All have their tears.
Many have their joy.
Most have their laughter.
All have their hope.
For that is what hope is,
Not quite that the poet says.
The thing with feathers perching,
Deep within ourselves
Singing the tune, without the words,
To never stop at all.