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Josh Mitteldorf

And philosophers ask is it possible knowingly to believe a lie

I might knock off writing now
And join friends in pursuit of holiday cheer,
But I choose to stay the course I find more comfortable.

A wave of satisfaction is my unearned reward,
Followed by - dare I call it joy?

Hope is a benignant thief.
We offer her our now,
But she dissects the plunder, carrying off
Our expectation of joy in this moment,
Leaving us the joy itself,
Which now may take us by ambush.

Chits we earn by today's effort
Are stowed for an ever-receding future.
To redeem them would be to know the hollow of their promise,
the disappointment of joy.

On our deathbeds, the habit of hope will be with us still

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