A Maiden Named Hope

There came a forked road in the road. The mist all around made it difficult to read the otherwise faded signs. But she knew her way well without the assistance of blank notes and ghastly echoes of her past which was walking behind her, tapping her on the shoulder, begging her to stop and turn and drown in the darkness she had promised herself to leave behind. Her head is a large, growling cauldron of magical and beautiful and quirky thoughts; her heart is the place the opaque halo of the moonlight dances in; yellow beads of nostalgic perspiration hangs down her delicate temples; the things roaming around and being pushed by the passers-by are the ones she clings to at night. What a thing it must be to exist in such a golden skin, they thought of her. Yet, she was the sole keeper of the secret embodying the rawness that lay hidden under that golden skin – a rawness so wild yet gloriously sweet in its own essence. She never needed words to make her thoughts fly by and take ground in the hearts and minds of others. Rather, she lay down her guard for the broken and the pure and made it her home to spread her kindness in their empty souls; holding on to the thorns as others got the daisies at the other end of the stick. When one beauty fades away, it becomes a soul of the free. She knows she will fade away soon as well; everything does. The memory of her transient existence is what will make her eternal and so you shall see her in all your dreary hallucinations, all your empty shores of self doubt, all your cries of misery, all your grey defeats. And the skies above will whisper to you and tell you her name was Hope.

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