Ward Kelley
Not Given a Name
At the core of your soul is not a goodness,
as you once hoped, not a ringing note
of joy, one which, it appears, resides
in the hearts of people you admire.
At the center of your soul is an animal
of hope, a scurrying little beast of longing
whose claws scratch on the blackboard
of life, a plank that says it is mostly
work to survive.
At the heart of this creature of hope,
in the middle of its soul, is despair.
It is a mystery how past all your hopes,
and past all your longing, is a knot
of desolation. Yet it is there,
and must be blanketed,
kept from view,
not given a name,
not ignored,
but placated.
Despair, you think,
attracts an ambiance
of hope.
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