It rests in the chest like a bird too long caged-
wings bruised from flightless years,
still lifting,
still dreaming of sky it has never touched.

Hope is not light.
It is the weight we carry when we
have nothing else,
the stone we clutch in the flood
because sinking feels closer to flying
that floating ever did.

It tightens the throat in quiet rooms,
a whisper pressed against silence
that dares to call itself a voice.

Hope is the ache that keeps the eyes open
when sleep would be easier.
It's the hand reaching,
again,
toward something that might not reach back.

Not blind-never blind-
but stubborn.
A flame refusing to behave like ash.

Some days it lifts you.
Other days,
you drag it behind you like a broken wing.
And still,
you do not let go.