Hope" is the thing with fire
That feeds on souls as fuel
That serenades so many like a siren as she covertly conspires
To hold on to your delusions all too well.

The plea for warmth in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm
That made the fire go back on her word
To keep so many warm.

Yet like a moth, our hearts keep fluttering back
To the flame that has us enraptured, and our dreams set ablaze.
She seduces the common man, distracting him from the attack
While the smoke leaves his mind in a dazzling haze.

And all at once, the world burns;
A con woman sells a fool a "get warm quick" scheme.
And all his friends wait in line for their turn,
Despite him taking one for the team.

I've felt it on the darkest nights
And on the cloudiest days.
I rub two stones in an attempt to turn on the lights,
But the charred remains of my phantom end up consumed by the burning maze.

I've felt in in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
And all its false promises made in extremity
Managed to take everything from me. 

-A contrasting parallel to Emily Dickenson's poem, "Hope" is the thing with feathers'

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