hours

which day?
which hours?
i wait and wander from mind to heart and back,
vacillating in some painful rhythm of...

is hope a wager?
place a bet? or press into some truth--
some truth that i know, but cannot see.

what eyes of faith are these?
and what the object of my affections?
affecting all i am and hope to be--

i am leaning, pressing into truth.

with the arrival of some future hour,
in which the wounds proclaim the freedom of their oppressors--
sad, sweet hour--but memory lends itself to sorrow so long.
oh waiting we hope,
for the Object of Our Affections.