Photo: Creative Commons
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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.
~
literophanes.com 
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