“the internal sadness of trying to be hopeful about the future while everyone else claims its getting worse”

Beneath the bright parade of suns,  
I nurture thin, persistent seeds—  
A hope that strains through shaded runs  
Of worry’s sharp and winding reeds.  
The morning’s radio repeats  
A litany of weary news;  
On every street, in every tweet,  
The world’s a bruise we all must choose.  

Still, somewhere deep inside my chest,  
Where fearful forecasts cannot reach,  
I house a stubborn, trembling guest—  
A trust that life has more to teach.  
I watch new leaves on bent old trees  
Uncurl with green, ungiven names;  
I feed my hope on sights like these,  
Though world-weary voices fan the flames.  

They say the future’s thin and bleak—  
A tapestry unraveling—  
But I will listen—heartache-weak—  
For morning larks that dare to sing.  
I’ll tend the quiet, inner spark  
That lingers in this era’s gloom,  
And plant my hope, though it be dark,  
And bid wildflowers find some room.

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