AT THE FINAL RACE BEN HUR CUT TO THE CHASE WITH THREE DOLPHINS DOWN AND ONE LAST HOPE TO GO

I long to trade
The choke of hope
For the certainty
Of despair

To exchange
The constant
Wearing strife
Of keeping
The light
In sight
For the comfort
Of that hedonistic
Depressive stare.

It angers me
That I just can’t
Get there,
And believe me I try
I list the reasons why
I should no longer
Defy fate;

I count the pain
Of disappointment
Yet, oh yet again.
I see that every face
I long to love in grace
Is in most likelihood
Just another
Fancy mask I hang
On an empty space.

I court and flirt
And beg despair
To come into my bed,
But stupid hope
Constantly confuses
The issue, and I
Am once again
Misled.

So I pour that cup
Of self-deception,
Drink deep
And scream:
L’Chaim!

What the hell!
What’s one more
Mistake in a life
Like mine?

Manuela Cardiga