Hating Hope

Sometimes
I hate
hope.
It's fleeting
and flighty,
teasing
and shadowy.
It's absence
angers me.

Don't talk
to me
about hope,
unless once
you've lost it.
Don't sing
to me
about hope,
unless once
it's disappointed
you too.

God's looking
over
at me.
He reaches
for my hand.
Quietly
he's telling
me,
"The Story's
not finished
yet."