Hope, the timid friend, who emboldens when

I am at the edge and about to fall,

She saves, and then becomes naïve again,

Until hops on, the next desperate call

Hope's a tattered flag, on a still, calm cruise,

It's a mask, that makes you- your persona,

And found in strange places, like dirty shoes

If you're two gentlemen from Verona

Hope, maybe, is not the thing with feathers,

It's naked, frail, surviving agonies,

It's honest, virtuous, like a bellwether

Guiding herds, of dreams, to their destinies

~Ajay
28/1/18
Written for poet's pub pubber of the year contest