Hope is the enemy of the heart,
A silent thief, a stealthy art.
It whispers dreams that never start,
And leaves behind a bitter part.

In shadows deep, where wishes fade,
It plants desires that masquerade.
With promises of bright parade,
Yet often leaves us dismayed.

It fuels the fire of what could be,
A siren song of mystery.
But in its wake, it leaves debris,
A trail of broken reverie.

Hope paints the sky with hues of dawn,
Then snatches colours when it's gone.
A fleeting muse to lead us on,
Yet often leaves us feeling drawn.

The heart, it beats with tender care,
But hope, it dances unaware.
A delicate and fragile snare,
That often leaves the heart laid bare.

So guard your heart with cautious grace,
For hope can be a ruthless chase.
A fleeting dream, a fleeting trace,
Yet still, we seek its warm embrace.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Miraman, in the year 951 AF.