When Hope Wanes

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Upon the wane of hope, when faith's fragile flame

Doth flicker low, a shadow of its name,

And in the silent, suffocating gloom,

A spectral dimness seals a star's soft tomb.


The heart, once steeped in fervent, cherished dreams,

Now whispers softly, rent at all its seams.

Enshrouded, lost, it longs to find anew,

A kindling spark to pierce the darkness through.


Yet in the vespertine, a whisper calls,

A velvet utterance, on the soft air falls—

“Hold fast, for dawn is born of blackest night,

And stars, in shadows, burn with purest light.”


For every night must yield to day's embrace,

And sorrow finds its own appointed space

In healing fields, where hope may yet abound,

Watered by tears upon the hallowed ground.


When hope dissolves, and faith appears as gauze,

Remember life's a breath without a pause—

A fleeting instant, yet divinely cast,

A chance to rise, to be aligned at last.


So let the shadows' murmur softly creep,

And trust the tides of time, profound and deep—

For after night, the sun will surely gleam,

And hope will dance within a waking dream.

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