Hope Was...

Once day I sat with a crying kid at a train station, I read to him the story that Emily Dickinson made, about hope, trying to help this person;

"'Hope' is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tune without the words—

And never stops — at all —

And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —

And sore must be the storm —

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm —

I've heard it in the chillest land —

And on the strangest Sea —

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb — of Me."

To which the kid with the seasoned soul replied to me:

"Hope has flew from me —

Though I am not the cause —

Hope has flown away from those —

who cause me harm

Sore was the storm —

That did abash me —

And scare off that little bird

Still I go and try to find —

Storm came from a place I knew —

Why is learning so hard —

I know now why the caged bird sings —

She was taken from me —

I was on the chillest land —

Was on the strangest sea —

Even left the crumbs out —

Yet, it never returned to me."

It was then he rose with a grin and thanked me, just in time for the train to go through him, and his hope forever no more.