~wrote this one a couple of years ago…
It has become a feat to push the line back
Between ideal and real;
Writing these words as a sword to hack
Away at that which brokenness corrupted,
Savoring what is good to love
In music and mountains, sunshine and faces;
Settling for some neon-lit trove
Of tarnished treasures, unholy binges,
Devotion to compulsions grows excessive with age:
The slow mutilation—assassination—of character.
So finding that identity becomes elusive
As years go by; and that waves of wisdom are driven
Not by the sands of time, but the sweet propensity to hope.
It is the prisoners of hope,
Those with that natural proclivity to inspire
The masses whose lives have become
Mere mirrors of a fragmented Eden,
Who in the end are set free,
Who will enjoy that end-time jubilee.
When will the perceived impracticality of the ideal and laudable
Be given the lens that the natural ambition of childhood
And old age, when life’s moments play upon the mind,
Our lives will be held accountable to our dreams.
Dreams are given on purpose.
“Return to your stronghold, O prisoners of hope;
Today I declare that I will restore to you double.”
– Zechariah 9:12