literophanes.com

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Hopefully is a deceptive word

Used too many times for useless arts,

Inherent in its promise with a possibility of failure.

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It’s a promise that orbits without connecting,

Embowed around my space, time, subjects, affections.

Our relationship remains distant and constant.

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The constant moon in the winter sky

Extends his exaggerated brightness

In the surrounding empty darkness.

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He’s the glowing illusion of hopefully,

Just a barren pocked landscape borrowed by sunlight,

Sunlight that steals any hopeful lunacy of poems.

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Then as bright as the sound of the word – hopefully

Spoken again and again,

The moon spins himself past my horizon again.

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Oh lucid, tangible dream … until last night, I’d forgotten what it was like to fly.  —  Literophanes