A dark void is not an abyss;
At least there is darkness inside.
Termite-ridden tree-trunks are not destroyed;
Merely transformed into an amorphous, edible abode.
Hope sinks as it sighs;
Eyelids drip with much-belaboured heart sweat.
Where is peace? All there is is piece.
Where is rest? All that remains is the rest.
Is there anything to make one glad,
Without turning into a garbage bag?
Hope frozen over; the chills of intergalactic vacuum
pressing in, squeezing against
bunny rabbits, rainbows and bright, sunny
spring days.
Hope springs eternal
unless it’s clogged with ice.
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