Hope is not the thing with feathers – chirping out platitudes.
Hope is the thing with claws that dig in, defiant, refusing to let go —
even when its bloodied fingertips are worn raw against the slick obsidian cliffs of despair… statistics… survival rates.
Hope is no oblivious canary, singing merrily as it heads down the mineshaft.
Hope knows full well what it’s up against, and screams into the darkness anyway:
You. Will. Not. Win.