Hope
A poem.
Hope
sits delicately on the window sill
overlooking the crisp morning
swinging her legs back and forth,
back and forth,
testing the air for potential flight.
She looks up,
watches a jet leave a cloud trail
across the sky.
She wished she knew what it was like.
How would the world look from
miles and miles above?
Would she feel like a God?
Capable of anything?
Could she snuff out the bad
from the world from up there?
Long brown hair shifts in the breeze,
trailing over green splotches on her skin.
Green. Purple. Blue.
Bruises.
Her fingers grip the cold brick
trying to imagine a world that is all good.
Her teacher says that people who
are no longer alive
watch over the world from the clouds.
She looks down at the concrete
three stories below.
Green grass borders it.
Could Hope change the world?
