Hope is good, or at least it should be bright and promising,
But it surfaces as my last resort, when dreams are taken from me.
Grand imaginations kindly ushering hope through holes,
Fostering painful realizations when inevitably they fold.
Hope is constantly abusive but always mannered well,
And it overly imposes upon my life's unfortunate hell.
If Hope should ever offer me a hand to get up, I would.
Even beaten with that hand I would open mine,
At least I hope I could.
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