Firehouse

Hope is our disease.

It speckles our skin

like goosebumps.

Spinning left and right,

we cling because it comes

disguised as wind, ruse, and

we are always ripe for

trickery devised of folds

and creases.  Hope; we have

discovered it here although

it is intended for

elsewhere.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to Firehouse

  1. Melanie says:

    Where can I find this ‘hope’ thing you’re talking about?

  2. Jules says:

    You are such a fabulous writer. So glad I found your blog. Its exciting to get to peel back the layers.

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