Moon at Half Past Noon

Hope is not a feeling. It’s a mass.
A weight we must lift, again, again.
Against the constant, subtle, grim gravity
of the acceptable, the known, the plain.

This is the force of Apathy: not a lack,
but a positive pull, a relentless draw
toward the center of silence, the event-horizon black,
where even the light of outrage seems a flaw.

Entropy is the law we cannot repeal:
the slow, sure cooling of the fervent heart.
The conversion of passion to the mundane and real,
the systematic tearing of will apart.

This is the friction that grinds the march to a halt:
not the wall, but the sand in the shoe.
The million tiny drags of “I’m at fault,”
and “It’s too complex,” and “What can one person do?”

The energy required to sustain a single flame
in this vacuum, this vast and cold expanse,
is a violation. A rebellious, screaming claim
against the dark’s statistical chance.

So when you see a light that still holds fast,
don’t call it cheerful. Don’t call it blessed.
Know it for what it is: a reaction that’s past
the equilibrium. A system stressed.

It is a miracle of focused, furious cost,
A quantum defiance of the thermodynamic host.
For every hope that lives, a world of hope is lost,
pulled down by the weight of what we need the most.

And the loudest despair is a quick, hot release,
but the silence of giving up is the universe at peace.