Neither being so

The poet steps outside
lights a cigarette and
idly looks around. 
Scudding clouds and an iron-grey sky
gaze back blankly.
People walk by, 
each a hopeful prison of dreams and desires.
The universe waits in silence,
scratching its knees.
Out of nowhere, a thought like 
a Japanese katana slices through
her mind:
'Great art requires either hope or
despair, and we possess neither.'

Amor Fati

This Night