STEPHAN WIEGOLD A Distant Thing Hope is a distant thing. It is not seen, smelled, tasted, felt, or heard. It only remains as a visage, a chased phantom. The only evidence of its existence stays as imprints of what once was, The freshly wetted streets of the morning, The orange sky with no sun, The half-sunken deer bones. The bystanders only look on with hollow eyes, in the shadow. Hope is a distant thing. Found only by those willing to stalk its tracks, and crawl through the thick stinging nettle. Though, the determined hunter is not left unrewarded. At the end of the beast-prints they find their treasure, The sacred midnight storm, The painted sky and glorious sun of dusk, The holy feast of the mountain lion. The hunters only look on with hopeful eyes, in the distant.
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