Hope is the food that feeds me
when the cupboards all run bare
It warms my tummy with thoughts so yummy
and never skips a dare

When flirting with a thought so lovely
hope lingers longingly
It flails its passionate storm above me
as its dreams consume and woo me

May hope not be this dreamer's dream,
but a prelude to enliven
And ready I will always be
when hope's surprise will rise then


So then what is it to be hopeless?
When nothing feeds you and you're as empty as the still desert who shape is formed by its lifelessness, and not the winds that change it?
To be the dried up, yellowed hills in the heat of the sun's  depletion- gasping for nothing in your listless, withered state, no longer breathing or growing?
How do you find your way from here?
Is there a reason to want to?
Where is it?
How do you find reason and meaning and life when you're dead inside?
When you don't even care that your heartbeat is fading?
When no one even sees you slipping away?
When you can't even cry?