Hope

Hope is something with wings,
Majestic ones,of gold and silver,
from the highest mountain,to the deepest trench,
It'll soar high,it may lay low,

To hope is to dream a little,
Like melting ice on springs first day,
Like a gentle stream,it will cascade,
As hope is beautiful as it is pure,

Why does the desert wanderer hope?,
When the midnight stars are as demure as it?,
Does the wind whisper not,sweet nothings to him and the moon cradles not, his dreams?,
Ah,but you forget my friend,because to hope is to dream a little,

When shooting stars,run free into the night,
shooting through the naked sky,like little fireflies,
Bringing with it, the hopes of a child somewhere,
Of catching one,and calling it his own,

From the crippled man,to the hardened criminal,
Hope kisses them gently,and takes their hands in it's,
To help lead them away from tumultuous despair,and impending heartache,
Because to them my friend,hope is something with wings...