Hope

 Is it wicked, my consumptive complacency?

That I am not chomping at the bit, gnashing my teeth, yearning for a taste of the supple wine on the top shelf.

That They don’t have to deprive themselves from candied bacon roasting on a spit, salivating every mouth, agape in wonder at the carnival.

That They don’t have to plan whether they can resist the incessant nagging that echoes through the skull.

Which hates itself

Only because it is itself.

No.

Instead I am adrift amid the waves of doubt

Dashed upon the rocks and

Consumed, in gorging mouthfuls, by the demons that possess me.

Though they see me, they do not acknowledge me.

They leave me, tied to the craggy points, to pay for what I have done to myself,

In the hopes of rectifying my transgressions

Against those whom I have loved:

Those whom I have harmed.

Who am I to combat these insidious endeavors?

Not a pawn, though certainly not resilient to the unremitting failures of my efforts;

I am neither grateful nor graceful, healthy nor strong;

Nor am I small, frail, or weak

But slowly cowering: neurotic, necrotic, decrepit, derelict;

Powerless against the persistent ache

Resounding the halls of my head.

I am Sampson shorn.

Achilles sprained.

Odysseus, benumbed on a lotus-flower journey.

My mind is muddled with hope,

But is ruined by hesitation.

I am no hero pinned by his hamartia,

But a mortal soul obsessed with creating meaning.

In a world where it does not exist.