The Trope of Hope...

I tell myself I am intelligent,
And try to soothe myself into sleep,
Only to wake that itinerant,
Who into the future wishes to peep.

Will I in days ahead have a job,
Not a career, a means of livelihood?
Will around me the seconds mob,
Foiling me, leaving me merely stood?

Will I hear the wind's whisper,
Set those words in poetic filigree?
Or, will I scurry and scamper,
And live my life by and to a degree?

I see the night's about to stir,
Leave, its traces only in the shadows;
Frantic,furious, the fear caster,
Wields his wand and weaves woes.

Having only slipped into slumber,
I wake to the clock's spooked scream;
There is so much that I remember,
That I cannot pretend it was a dream.

The coursing darkness on page,
With its loping words, forms a trope;
Having survived many an age,
It again homes to heart, does hope.