They Hold Hope

Silence.

Quiet fills these dark halls, reminiscent of cold, lost nights

spent on the streets, screams of rebels echoing

through the long shadows.

Who'd have thought that maybe, just maybe

we'd own these streets, roam the extended corridors,

mazes in the metal and concrete jungle we call home.

Madness.

The rise in our voices escalates like the towers above us,

breaking at the peak with tears and angry accusations.

There's no point to this.

It feels like we just yell to hear our own voices

rise above the sky scrapers.

It's always a break up and make up,

products of short tempers and pent up rage.

Calm.

I am calm.

I am the bay waves crashing upon the shore,

slowly growing only to run right into

that old, crumbling brick wall.

It haunts me, echoes into the thin, shiny

slice of metal between my fingertips,

painting patterns into a pale canvas.

Hope.

I am hope.

I hold my dreams in my palms,

catching them like warm raindrops on a summer night.

I search for an answer, some kind of light to guide me

at the end of this train tunnel I'm stuck inside,

whistle blowing in the distance.

It seems impossible, but my dreams hold the galaxies.

They hold my future, every part of my being.

Hope. They hold hope.