Old, battle-worn as I am,
Still I can get a glow,
Hopped up by hope,
Intoxicated by belief
That something might
Go right this time.
You’d think I’d know
Life will not turn out
Quite as I have hoped;
I start late,
Overestimate resources,
Misread motivations,
Depend on frail friends,
Eat disappointment for dessert.
But I will not have myself
Be hopeless;
I won’t bawl, or mope forlorn,
A saddened cynic
With meager expectations
And zero optimism.
My hope will spring eternal;
And my argument,
My ratiocination:
Without hope
I’d be like the walking dead,
I’d be nothing,
I’d never have been born at all.
©2004 John I. Blair
