by "Ghost," a maximum security prisoner
When hope is aroused—or even the possibility of that hope’s approach—the body, of it’s own accord, fills with a reservoir of bated breath, as though preparing for the shouts of joy and happiness, victory and triumph, that are sure to come, no longer checked by the dams of possibility and doubt shored with the black mortar of cynicism.
Unfortunately, this air, this breath, this Spirit, must go somewhere. No man, no woman, can live long with held breath! But where? Where, if disappointment is strapped to the back of the dawn, yet again, like a plow whose dull blade knifes through hearts swollen with hope?
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