By Tyler MacDonald

They say that hope is happiness, but I have dreamed

of my life turned to a sunset, all settled down with a love for my heart,

the air around me sweetly still,

just to wake up to find it less than dust,

to find myself aware, alone, a speck.

They say that hope is happiness, but I have shivered

in the winter waiting for spring rain,

I have imagined the free vivid life it’d bring;

O, for rain I didn’t wait in vain:

it rained outside like a thing alive;

en masse I saw the bright tulips grow;

at the sight even my eyes rained unto my cheeks,

 but in my heart spring rain failed to fall so;

if only precipitation could’ve help me know

how to grow a flower in my soul.

Even if it be a thorned rose.

They say that hope is happiness but I have seen the juniper

hardly alive, twisted, old and dry,

fighting for sun with all it has left,

struggling just to die.

They say that hope is happiness, but there’s dust on my window,

and to dust we shall return.

Still they say that hope is happiness, and now I have seen the sun

at raw dawn when day yawns open the skies

into a burst of color full and amorous;

I have smelled the new morning air,

heard the trees singing with birds,

and thought of a rose,

and felt the petals as they softly touched my soul.