Rasp gasping blood
no one listened when she groaned
through the patterns,the pulses
the lines she’d followed for decades.

Rich - that was the body Hope wore.
Hope was a Helenic beauty,
gleaming radiant,
astride her walk with Truth,
an ideal Paris.

There were no fingers stretching to them
where she’d learned to stay -
under bought distance, fogging
every mirror just to prove, again,
Life still rattled in her.

All she could do.
All she ever did
was all she could do.
And Gods, she failed it well.

When they buried her future,
she eulogized her belief
with nailless fingers
worn to bone
in silent, solitary
existence.

Can’t call it life when it’s not yours.
Can’t cry for what you stole.
No one’s listening, little one.
That’s the good news.