Flowers of Hope – a poem by Tom Bauer

Flowers of Hope

We going to blow ourselves up? I don’t know.
Potential’s always there. Even if we crush
the weapons into useless bits of dust,
there could be someone, right? Planning something?
It’s just my brain. The house is clean, perhaps
too clean, the kind of saintly clean which only
virtue can reveal in hearts that know sin,
like kindly ones; born in hell, dwell in heaven.
The desk I’m at is here this now, I know
that much, because I’m here to see it’s so,
but otherwise uncertainty rules the day.
What is the chance that brains line up? That armies
of regret can turn to hope as one and flow
in harmonizing natural displays?

Tom Bauer is an old coot who did a bunch of university and stuff. He 
lives in Montreal and plays board games.

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