Alive

Things.

Things.

Things.

So many things.

Stuffed into the closet. Shoved under the bed. Scattered on the floor.

More like caked onto the floor.

Do I even have a floor?

Broken doll from second grade...

...my grandpa gave it to me for my birthday.

Brittle flowers hanging from the ceiling...

...a fruitless attempt to keep that  glorious night alive forever. 

Dusty guitar propped against the bed… 

...I was going to learn to play it. 

Things...

Things...

Things...

My room is full of dead things.

My life is full of dead things.

 

But as my eyes sweep the scene of crusts and carnage

I notice the bookshelf in the corner,

the one my dad made for me when I was six.

There are the books I've always read,

 the ones that helped me, the ones that saved me,

and some of the ones that I hated so much

I fumed at the turning pages for weeks...

and then couldn't bear to throw them away.

 

In those pages are wars and traitors

and summer days and roses

and pain and heartbreak

and joy and song

and death

and life

 

and in the end there is one thing that binds them

that breathes life into them.

It is hope.

 

Hope that the wars and the traitors

will turn to summer days and roses

Hope that the pain and heartbreak

will turn to joy and song

Hope that death

will turn to life

 

The room transforms.

Hope begins from the bookshelf and spreads,

Its fingers of light and warmth touch everything.

The doll seems to tell me, "He's okay."

The flowers whisper gently, "There is something glorious waiting."

The guitar invites, "There is still time."

My room is alive.

My heart is alive.

I am alive.

 

It doesn't matter what I own

or where I am

or where I'm not.

The hope will touch me.

The hope will change me.

It is all I need.

 

Hope.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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