Ugliness in Death

Where do you desires go when they die?
When they are all mottled up and shrivelled,
Mutilated beyond redemption;
When we have confused them with our needs
And made them vital to our survival?

Do they hide in the recesses of our dreams,
In the yellowed pages of a long forgotten journal,
To be the waning life force of hope and ambition,
Only to make an appearance on a sunny day?
Or do they become the remnants of an emotional baggage,
Abandoned in the face of tears, dejection, or reason,
That keeps dragging us down into the depths of despair?

Does hope gasp for breathing space
As the graveyard of longings comes to be littered
With the tombstones of our failures?
If they had ever found refuge in our benevolent minds,
Who nourished them like their own,
Do we wish on a false star by hoping to stay the same?

I suppose one could hide in a corner,
Like a moody dog who jealously guards his bone,
Casting a suspicious eye on his own reflection,
'Til the effort of playing sentry to our hearts
Wears us thin and we scoop out the last bit of dignity
Into the cup of surrender,
To be served at a moment's notice
To the demons of self-pity.

I suppose one could learn to forget,
Try to heal a damaged self,
Even beguiling it into knowing respect...

I suppose one could keep waiting on that miracle.