Teeth on edge.
Stomachs churning.
Hair trigger nerves.
Sick with a familiar
But unholy mixture
Of hope and dread.
Hope mixed with dread
That goodness and kindness,
Justice and mercy,
Will come to naught.
Hope mixed with dread
That the most craven instincts
Again will win.
We are sick with hope.
Sick with hope
That our better angels
Just this once
Will sing the loudest and sweetest.
Sick with hope
That just this once
We can say
We are better than that.
~ On The Eve Of The Senate Election
Doug Jones or Roy Moore?
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