Hope is never enough. Never. Such a fool of me to think it was. Like a weathered wig, the flame of the candle concludes its concessionary dance, in tune to the ballad of the wind. The forlorn shadows that cast from its pathetically beautiful performance sways in unison to the drumming of my heartbeat; syncopated and welling with discord, of majors and minors clashing with the harmony.

Utter chaos.

Born in the sewers and raised in the alleys, the friends of mice and not men prowl the streets at night looking for sympathy. But they are so misunderstood and when the sun rises, the slip back into the acid pool, in search of their never-ending repentance. The poor ghouls they will become, if only they knew.

If only.

The caged beasts locked in confusion but overwhelmed with desperation. They claw the horizontal bars praying that it is a surreal illusion, only to face recurring disappointment. Some headbutt the enclosure, forcefully waiting for a miracle--or death to simply strike first. But know that the spatial separation of these foul creatures mean nothing to what they unanimously believe in--freedom.

Such fools.

Spit upon the world and all it's hopeless hopeful believers. Some men just want to watch the world burn, and others choose to believe that these men don't exist.

Believe is perhaps too strong a word. Hope--to foolishly hold on to an absurd belief despite knowing that it will very well not occur. Hope is a sophisticated way of filtering out the lunatics; gone wild with thought and lost far too deep in their idealism.

You're waiting for a train. A train that will take you far away. You know where you hope the train will take you, but you can't be sure.

Because hope is a painful lie and you can never be sure.

What's sure of is the end.