I run after it. Grasping. Clutching.
"Just give me one shred of it," I plead. And it vanishes.
I forgot that hope lives not outside me.
I can chase it, but it will always slip away.
The only hope that is real is that found within my breast.
The small flame I feed.
A belief that things will get better. Why? Because I will make them better.
Better for myself, my loved ones, and my neighbors.
Photo by Branimir Balogović on Unsplash