I stood outside hope’s door, 
Afraid to open it, terrified of what I’d find, 
An empty town, abandoned houses 
And silent streets, 
A battlefield, covered with blood and death, 
A crying child, forgotten, 
No one to tell her that she is not alone, 
A baby bird with broken wings  
That will never fly again. 
 
There, outside the door of hope, 
I told myself to believe  
That behind the door there was safety, 
A warm bed, 
A story whispered to me as I fell asleep, 
An apple pie cooling on the counter, 
A field of grass to lie in at night and watch the stars, 
A light in the darkness to guide me home. 
 
Once I held hope in my hands. 
It was fragile and perfect, like a butterfly, 
That could be destroyed with a single touch,