The Optimist.

Unlike a dove above the wine stained sea,

Who moves unreal like feathers through the breeze,

Chained to this flesh and left with not a key,

Only in the bittered end will we be free.


Poet’s crown thrown to the jeering crowd there,

But the revered wreath did not land among

feet and pluming dust gathered in the square.

‘Twas caught by birds with songs still penned, unsung.


There is hope for our altered minds said she.

The cage is not more than what we believe.

With some space will that be revealed to thee,

Only after thou takest time to grieve.


There is no god above she said to me,

So we can write these tales with endings sweet.