On Hope: A sonnet.

Out from the dense death-deep dark space

Hope came to me with steady a pace:

Adorned with a halo like rings of Saturn,

Blowing on her conch she announced my turn,

Her parts were covered with the mother of pearl,

Her hair wild and fiery was in a perpetual whirl.

She held out a vile vase wound with lace,

With downcast eyes thrust it to my face,

In the vase nettles were chocking a rose.

Scratching my stinging skin from this vision I arose,

To find myself in a train’s tail end wagon,

My skin I peeled and the illusions were gone,

Out the window the train derailed – I held on.