The word is sweet against my lips,

My saccharine ambrosia,

My knight in shining armor,

Charging on a fair white horse,

With a defiant yell,

A curdling scream to which all my fear cringes;


The word is short, tis simple,

Look- deceptive,

But it holds the power to raise me from the ground of melancholy,

To the soft, sweet clouds of redemption and ease.


Raising spirits, dead and gone,

Splashing splotches of happiness in the air, in bursts,

The black hands of defeat,

Can never wrap itself around my hope,

My sweet, saccharine hope.


My guiding flame,

My reassurance when all seems lost,

The lingering hand on my sullen shoulders,

My buoy, my lifeline, my everything,

My hope.

The End

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