Contributor: Lyla Sommersby


The only joy is hope
and hope is only ever momentary
each expectant pregnancy
ending only in stillbirth sorrow
the falling off the mountain
the broken leg
halfway up the peak
but you crawl
and you crawl
and you try to forget
all the pointless hours
all the blood and sweat
spilled freely
always freely
in the hope of promises
that fall apart
like dust in the hand

but again, you hope
again, you pick yourself up
and you find some way to accept it
until all that remains is a whisper,
the words:
I may not have gotten what was promised
but at least I'm still alive to try again.


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I am a student in Miami, Florida. Painting is my other love. My first book, Sketches of Someone, is available through Thunderune Publishing.