My mother is dying.
My daughter cries for me.
But I’m homeless and far away—
because I’m sick.
Let hope be our last act.
Over 12 long years
I lost everything to my sickness.
But even as my body crumbles
and it feels like final days
Let hope be our last act.
Sometimes it’s too much:
the shame of being broken,
the slings and arrows,
the silent suffering.
Let hope be our last act.
And as I sit in a desert of bones and dreams
In a world of bitter daily bread
I will listen for the voice that cries
that even as darkness spreads,
even as this world splinters apart,
Let me believe in the Angels inside us
Let me find shelter under its wings
Let it teach me strength to keep breathing
And lift me up into the sky.
And whether these are my last deeds,
Or whether miracles bloom in desert nights,
Let me fight for the Meaning of parched air
Let hope be our last measured act
And let it soar and fall back down
as rain.
Reply